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reidmania · 3 months ago

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in the absence of you | s.reid

summary; to find out you're pregnant and then experience a miscarriage while spencer is in prison, is a lot, trying to figure out if you should tell him when he gets home is just as much.

warnings; fem reader, hurt x comfort, mainly hurt, a lot of angst, miscarriages, pregnancy, guilt, withholding information, post prison spencer, mentions cat, probably inaccurate medical information, messy timeline, relationship struggles, imma say 18+ because there is very strong mentions of sex, and bad sex experience, emotional deattachment, grief, guilt, reader strongly believes she did something wrong, spencer blames himself for her dettachment, insecurities, trust issues, established relationships, hopeful ending, (happy ending would be inaccurate bc theres nothing happy about this fic!) feeling alone, yeah man idk this is just sad.

an; um.. so this was suppose to be fic 5 but i wanted to post it sooner, and its BEARtober so i can actaully do whatever i want.. thank you, i know i posted fic one two hours ago.. but its technically day 2 bc its 12:30am.. im so sorry in advance. 4.7k... YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT YOU CONSUME!! if this will trigger you, please don’t read.

beartober masterlist

You remember the moment clearly: the world was grey, the air heavy with the scent of rain, when you stumbled upon the truth in a small, sterile bathroom. It had been two weeks since Spencer had been taken away, wrongfully convicted and trapped in a nightmare you couldn’t fathom. You had just returned from a visit, the echoes of his voice still dancing in your mind like a haunting melody. You stood there, staring at the little stick in your hand, the two pink lines appearing like a beacon of hope in the darkness that surrounded you. Your heart raced, a mixture of joy and fear spiralling within you. You were pregnant. Spencer’s child was growing inside you, a tiny miracle nestled in the shadows of despair.

In that moment, you could almost picture his face—the way his eyes would light up, a smile breaking across his face as he wrapped his arms around you. You imagined the joy of sharing this news, of planning a future together even in the midst of chaos. But as the excitement bubbled within you, a chill settled in your chest. Spencer was in prison, suffering through an ordeal that felt cruel and unjust. You couldn’t bring this news of a new life into the turmoil that enveloped you both. What would it mean for him to hear such news in a place where hope felt like a distant memory? No, you decided. You would wait. You would hold this secret close until he was home, until you could see the joy reflected in his eyes, not the shadows of despair.

Days turned into weeks, and each passing moment felt like a tightrope walk, balancing on the edge of your own joy and the weight of his suffering. You became adept at hiding your secret, slipping into a routine that felt increasingly fragile. You took prenatal vitamins in the morning, their presence a constant reminder of the life blossoming within you. You attended appointments alone, tracing your fingers over the growing bump that would soon signify so much.

But with every visit to Spencer, every moment shared behind that glass, you felt the joy dimming under the weight of your choice. You didn’t want to add to his pain; his world was already dark. You watched him struggle to hold onto hope, and you couldn’t bear the thought of placing another burden on his shoulders. You knew if you told him he would be happy, and then feel horrible because you were pregnant, and he wasn’t there, he deserved to hear it when he could process it. That was something else you worried about, the timing was horrible, not unwelcomed on your behalf but unfortunate. When Spencer got out he would need time to adjust, you would need time to adjust.

When you touched your belly, you whispered promises, vowing to keep this little one safe until he was free. But it wasn’t long before the joy turned to an ache, a sense of loneliness creeping in. You would lie in bed at night, tracing your fingers over your bump, feeling the small kicks and flutters, and wishing desperately that he could be there to experience it with you. The silence felt oppressive, filled with unspoken words and unshared dreams.

Then, just two weeks before Spencer came home, everything shattered. You found yourself crumpled on the bathroom floor, the world spinning around you as the pain hit like a tidal wave. You didn’t want to believe what was happening, didn’t want to accept that the life you had held onto so tightly was slipping away. The miscarriage was both a physical and emotional unravelling, a gut-wrenching reminder of how fragile hope can be.

You spent the following days in a fog, the echo of your loss drowning out everything else. Each moment felt surreal, like you were watching life unfold from behind a glass wall. You wanted to scream, to let the world know that you had lost something precious, but the fear of burdening Spencer kept you silent. You couldn’t tell anyone, nobody knew you were pregnant beforehand. You kept the joy away from the world until it could reach Spencer, and now it was gone. In the quiet of your apartment, you felt the walls closing in. The space that had once been filled with laughter and love now felt hollow, echoing only with your grief. You avoided places that reminded you of the joy you had once felt, the memories of what could have been cutting deep into your heart. You wandered through your days in a daze, wearing a mask of normalcy for the world to see. Friends reached out, concern etched on their faces as they noticed your distance. You offered polite smiles and reassurances, your heart aching at the thought of revealing your pain. They didn’t know what you had lost, and you didn’t want to pull them into your darkness.

At night, when the silence was deafening, you would curl up on the couch, clutching a pillow to your chest, tears streaming down your face. You replayed the moments you had spent with Spencer, the way his laughter would fill a room, how he would hold you close and make you feel safe. You missed him fiercely, but you also felt an overwhelming loneliness, the grief a reminder of everything you had kept hidden from him. You thought about telling him, about sharing the weight of your sorrow, but the thought made your chest tighten.

Every time you looked at him when you visited, your heart twisted with guilt. He deserved to know, but you feared his reaction, the possibility of seeing that flicker of pain in his eyes. You wanted to protect him, but in doing so, you found yourself carrying this burden alone. You acted the best you could when you visited, but you knew he could tell you weren’t okay.

Two weeks have passed since Spencer’s release, but the warmth of his return hasn’t settled into your bones. Instead, it feels like a lingering chill, a shadow that stretches over your heart. How could you add to his pain when he had just returned to a world that felt foreign? He had faced horrors you could only imagine, and you didn’t want to push him deeper into the darkness. You stand in the kitchen, staring blankly at the dishes piled high in the sink, each one a reminder of how normalcy feels out of reach. The sunlight filters through the window, casting a golden hue across the room, but it does little to brighten the dark corners of your mind.

Spencer is home, yet he feels distant, a haunting echo of the man you once knew. You watch him move around the apartment, and while he wears a smile that is both familiar and foreign, his eyes reveal the weight of the trauma he carries. You want to comfort him, to wrap him in the warmth of your love, but the grief of your loss sits like a stone in your chest, making it hard to breathe. It’s been so easy to slip into the role of caretaker, to push your own feelings aside for the sake of his recovery and adjustment. The truth is suffocating.a secret you’ve kept locked away, tucked into the recesses of your heart. You want to scream it, to let the world know, but the fear of burdening him with your sorrow keeps your lips sealed.

Every time you meet his gaze, you feel the weight of your silence pressing down on you. Spencer is still adjusting, still fighting to find his place in a world that has changed around him. You can see the flickers of his old self—the gentle humour, the way his laughter dances in the air—but the shadows linger. You can’t shake the feeling that by holding back your truth, you’re pulling him deeper into the void. Spencer’s presence was a comfort, but the weight of your secret loomed like a dark cloud. You started to withdraw, spending long hours lost in thought, feeling like a ghost haunting your own life. In the two weeks Spencer had been home, you had sex once, a few nights after he got home– and honestly it was probably the worst sex you’ve ever had, not because of him, he did everything perfectly, you felt good, physically, he was gentle, and focused. Three months is a long time without sex, and physically it felt good, really good.

But the physical pleasure didn’t compare to the mental disturbance. You felt like the world was crushing you, there was so much guilt and disgust flowing through your veins because it felt so wrong. You kept it together and you didn’t blame him for not noticing, you kept your eyes closed throughout the entirety of it, too scared that if you let them open the tears would fall. He was focused on being gentle. It was messy, and fast, and you were almost thankful. You waited till Spencer fell asleep before you hid yourself away in the bathroom and spent hours crying. You didn’t wake him, you refused to. He deserved rest, good rest in the comfort of your shared bed. Anytime he tried to initiate more you tried, you allowed yourself to get lost in the feeling of his lips for a while but you couldn’t do it when the feeling bubbles in your chest again and you felt the struggle to breathe, not from the kiss but from the pure weight of your guilt.

You hardly slept, the one way to escape your burden taken away when your dreams of what your life could’ve been turned into nightmares of what you had lost. Most nights you’d lie still in Spencer’s arms, his body warm against yours, yet it provided no comfort, only reminding you of what you were keeping from him. You felt guilty, guilty that the ultrasound photos sat in the bottom of your handbag untouched since the day you lost the baby, you couldn’t look at them, it felt like torture. You felt like it was your fault, no matter how many times the doctor told you, it wasn’t, it was a thought you couldn’t shake. You felt like you were constantly battling the idea of telling Spencer, which would only put more on his shoulders, more that he didn’t need, but he deserved to know, you knew he would want to know.

You were pulling away, He noticed, of course, but he attributed it to his own struggles.

“Hey, you okay?” Spencer asks one evening, breaking the silence that has settled like a heavy fog between you. You look up from your coffee, the steam curling into the air like the thoughts you can’t articulate.

“Yeah, just tired,” you reply, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You wonder if he can see through it, if he senses the turmoil beneath the surface.

He nods, though uncertainty flashes across his face. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately. I know things have been rough, I- I know things are different- I’m different. I'm sorry, but I’m here..” The sincerity in his voice hits you hard. You want to believe that you can lean on him, that you can share the weight of your grief, but the thought of adding to his burden paralyses you. He’s already been through hell; how can you throw your pain into the mix?

“It’s just… adjusting to everything,” you say, your voice wavering. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around all that’s happened.”

Spencer steps closer, the warmth of his body radiating into the space between you. “I know. We will be okay.. Are we okay?.”

Your heart aches at the earnestness in his gaze. You want to reach out, to let him pull you into the light, but the chasm of your grief feels insurmountable. It feels silly trying to act like everythings fine, it would be useless to lie, the colour drained from your face and the emptiness in your eyes spoke words louder than a lied ‘im fine’ ever could, so you gave in to his knowledge. You nodded, “ We’re okay– I- I just need time,” you whisper, looking down at your hands. “I’ll be okay.” You move away towards the couch, he follows, sitting next to you as you bury yourself in the sofa.

The silence that follows is heavy, filled with unspoken words and unacknowledged pain. Spencer nods slowly, his expression one of resignation mixed with concern. You can see the wheels turning in his mind, the thoughts he’s too afraid to voice. As the days pass, the emotional distance between you only grows. You drift through your routines, performing the motions of daily life—cooking meals, doing laundry, going to work, avoiding the deeper conversations that tug at your heart. You want to talk about it, want to tell him how devastated you are, but every time you think of opening your mouth, the words stick in your throat. Each time he reaches out, trying to connect, you feel a pang of guilt. He deserves to be wrapped in the comfort of your love, not burdened by your sorrow. You keep telling yourself it’s better this way, that it’s noble to protect him, but deep down, you know it’s a lie.

“Let’s watch something together,” he suggests, his tone light but laced with worry. You nod absentmindedly, your mind elsewhere. The sound of laughter from the show fills the room, but it feels hollow. You can’t shake the heaviness that clings to your heart.

“Do you remember the last movie we watched together?” Spencer asks, attempting to lighten the mood. “The one with the ridiculous plot twist?” He offers, shuffling his body to face you a little more, you continue picking at your nails, keeping your gaze on the tv, honestly hardly hearing his words

You force a chuckle, but it doesn’t reach your heart. You don’t remember, not in the slightest, maybe if you thought about anything besides the weight in your chest you would be able to, but everything was distant, you were distant. “Yeah, that was… something.”

He turns to face you, and you can see the concern in his eyes. “You’re not really here, are you?”

His words cut deep, and the truth behind them wraps around your throat like a vice. “I’m trying,” you manage, feeling the tears threaten to spill over.

“Just… talk to me,” he pleads, and there’s a desperation in his voice that makes your heart ache. “Is it too much? Baby, tell me what you’re thinking.” He shuffles closer. You tense.

And yet, the silence persists. The weight of your loss feels too heavy to share, like a storm cloud hanging over both of you. You can’t bear the thought of seeing the flicker of pain in his eyes, the guilt that would inevitably follow. You feared saying it aloud would make it too real, telling him would make it too real. He didn’t deserve that, not after the months he spent being put through unimaginable things. He was trying here, to make this as easy for you as possible, showing empathy in the time he needed it most. That plagued you with guilt you couldn’t shake because no matter how hard you tried to be present, your heart remained in pieces on the bathroom floor.

“It's not you.” It came out quiet and if your sense of self awareness didn’t feel thousands of miles away you would’ve cringed. It wasn’t him, he was trying his best and dealing with stuff and turmoil you couldn’t even begin to imagine, you expected a change in him, that wasn’t the issue. Your head dropped as your fingers moved a little rougher, now picking at the skin around your nails, a horrible habit Spencer had helped you stop when you first started dating, you subconsciously picked it up again when he went to prison.

He moved closer, if you looked up you would’ve seen his brows knitted in concern and a frown on his face as he reached out to depart your hands from one another, taking one on his own to stop your assault. “Then what is it?” He was pleading for an insight into the mess in your head, that was terrifying because you knew there was a similar mess in his own, for a completely different reason. You were both silently fighting emotions impossible to articulate. Spencer was slowly adjusting, slowly. It took time for him to even begin to talk about what had happened in his time locked up, you never pushed. He was trying to let you in, and you were trying to push him out, but you could see it in his eyes, he knew there was something, and you could push him away and try to handle this alone, but you didn’t want to be alone.

You looked up at him, tears lining your eyes. You chewed at your lip before you let out a harsh breath, “I got my period.” Your voice broke, then the tears followed as a sob left your lips. Then your hands were reaching to cover your face as the tears continued, falling as if you hadn’t been crying everyday for the last month. Waking up to your period was maybe the worst feeling you had ever experienced, the reality washing over you again, and the sight of blood filling you with a memory you didn’t think you could ever forget. It was painful, so painful.

His eyes widened when you started sobbing, each sound leaving your lips causing his heart to weigh heavier as he moved closer to wrap his arms around you. He knew you, he knew you on your period. Sure you were more emotional than normal but not this emotional. His hands threaded through your hair as you buried your face in his chest, still covered by your hands. He didn’t want to admit that this was the closest he had felt to you since his release. “Is that what's wrong, sweet girl? Are you in pain?” He asked, and you shook your head as sobs ripped from your throat followed by wet hiccups. You were sure there were probably wet stains on his shirt despite the fact your hands were in the way, your tears would not stop, you couldn’t stop them, you couldn’t carry this alone. Not anymore.

It was muffled by your hands and his t-shirt, hardly coherent through your sobs, “I was pregnant,” You felt him stiffen slightly and you knew he heard it, but once the truth was in the air, once the words left your lips, the others followed almost instantly. “I was pregnant and I lost it – I killed our baby.” It was all broken words, the ugliest side of your guilt travelling through in your words.

He was quiet. That was the worst part. You knew he wasn’t mad, actually you didn’t know that, deep down maybe, but right now you truly believed he could have any sort of reaction, even the most unlike him. Right now your brain was absent of any ability to process what you were doing. Your chest was so tight it hurt and you were genuinely struggling to breathe.

When he heard your slight hyperventilating against his chest he seemed to snap out of whatever state he was in, he pulled back to look at your face, his hands moving to cup your cheeks to pull you to look at him, the sight was heartbreaking. “Breathe, Please. Deep breaths” He guided, his voice gentle but you could see emotion in his eyes, something less gentle, not so much anger, maybe hurt, maybe confusion, maybe guilt. You couldn’t see well enough through your tears to figure it out.

You listened, the air you breathed in deeply was so cold it made your throat burn, it was just as cold when you breathed it back out, then again. “I’m sorry,” You whispered, the tears were still falling, you didn’t bother trying to stop them anymore. It was useless.

“That’s a lot–” He shook his head, “--You were pregnant?” It was the same whisper as yours, as if he was trying to make sure he properly understood what had left your lips, as if this was a reality he didn’t want to be. He was confused, of course he was.

You frowned as you looked up at him, you knew he would want to know everything, and as much as you knew he deserved that, explaining and reliving it felt like a punishment, as if you needed more of that. “Spencer” it was pleading. You were pleading with him not to dig, not to ask, selfishly so, because you knew he deserved everything, that he needed to hear it just as much as you needed to not talk about it.

He frowned, his thumb reaching to brush tears away from your cheeks, the movement useless because the tears kept falling, “I know it hurts. Can you tell me when?” he asked, he was being so gentle, it only made the guilt in your chest burn more, his kindness was cruel because you didn’t deserve it, not in your eyes.

You hiccuped as you looked down, he lifted your face a little more, encouraging you to look back at him, you did. You “Um– A month after- you uh” You trailed off, a month after his life was ruined and he was wrongfully convicted, he knew what you meant, you could see it in the way his eyebrows furrowed further. He was quiet, the silence thick with so many questions and needed explanations, he needed to know what happened, he needed to be walked through it because he wasn’t there. You knew the guilt was probably eating at him for that, you partly wished you hadn’t mentioned it, that you had been more sensible before blurting it out.

“How far along were you?” He asked, another question tumbling out so gently. He was trying to be careful, despite his hundreds of questions. There was no backing out now, he deserved to know everything just as much as you deserved to be able to tell him everything.

You hiccuped as you answered, “Eight and a half weeks.”

His eyes closed as a harsh breath left his lips, his hands dropped from your face to drag along his own. You weren’t sure what he was feeling, you weren’t sure what you were feeling. He did the maths in his head to figure out when you miscarried, he didn’t want to make you answer it. His hands dropped from his face to his lap as he looked back at you, then you saw tears in his eyes, ones that mirrored your own. “Did you find out what happened?” He asked, voice strained.

You dropped your head and looked down at your hands, “Genetic abnormalities” you whispered. Saying more seemed impossible as your throat felt like it was closing.

You remembered the appointment after like a scene on repeat. There were so many tears, so many ‘it's not your fault, there's nothing you could’ve done' and even more ‘Do you want me to call somebody?’ from the doctor, the question would only make your tears harsher, because there was nobody to call.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracked with emotion as he searched your eyes. He wasn’t angry, he was hurt, processing, overwhelmed, anything but angry with you. He wanted to know, he wanted to know everything, especially something like this.

Your head dropped further as you whispered and ‘im sorry’ which made him shake his head, and remind you that he asked you why you didn’t tell him, he wanted to know what was going on in your head, he wanted to know, he wanted you to let him in, to let him grieve this loss with you. He wanted to know what it was that made you feel like this was something you had to carry alone.

“You’ve been through – You’re going through so much” You mumbled out, every word seemed harder to get out, but there was no out of this conversation, no running or hiding from the truth, from him. “I didn’t– I didn’t want you to have to deal with this as well.”

His frown deepened, and you swore your heart broke in half when a sound so sad left his lips, as if what you said physically wounded him. “You-” He let out a harsh breath, “That's not fair.” He whispered, and you knew he was right. You withheld information he deserved to know, that could affect him just as much as it did you, and he understood your intentions, and your fears but that didn’t make it any easier to process. He wasn’t mad, he was hurt, maybe a little bit mad, but not so much with you, with everything else. “You don’t– Angel, you can’t choose that for me. This– this is just as much on me to deal with as it is for you. I want to deal with this with you.”

“I know.” You were silent after that, because the only words you could think of was ‘I’m sorry’ and you knew he didn’t want that. You knew he didn’t want you to be sorry, he wanted you to trust him to let him in, to not treat him like he was fragile. He wanted you to have faith in him, to be able to rely on him, he wanted to be there. He hated that he hadn’t been there. He was right, it wasn’t your job to dictate what he could and couldn’t handle, and while maybe with the right intentions, you were taking away such an important part of your relationship from him, you were hiding something so important to you, and you knew it was just as important to him.

Maybe I’m sorry was all you could think of, because that's all you were. So sorry. Sorry that you hid it from him, sorry that you let him down, sorry that you lost the baby. You were so filled with guilt and grief it was consuming you. No matter how many times you were told it wasn’t your fault, the wonder of what if took up too much space in your mind, what if you just did one thing differently, it was useless, because it was out of your control, that felt worse. That there was nothing you could have done to change it. Spencer was just as silent as you were. The weight of what happened caused a crack neither of you wanted there, you didn’t know how to fix it, you didn’t know how to let him into the mind you didn’t even want to be in.

“I love you” He muttered.

The sob followed. You didn’t realise how much he was holding back emotion till this moment. Till he leant forward to wrap his arms around you and his head buried into the crook of your neck, seeking your comfort just as much as you seeked his. You shuffled closer and wrapped your arms around his, easing into his touch. “It's not your fault.” He spoke through his sobs, His hand trailed up to cup the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair, pulling you closer, at his words your mind swirled, hearing it from him made you think about it, it didn’t shake the guilt, but it softened it, your sob followed his.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, crying in the comfort of one another, at some point you had moved so you were on his lap, his arms around you like he needed it to breathe. Telling him didn’t ease the grief you were carrying, you didn’t think anything would, but you were feeling it with him, and you weren’t alone in it. There were many more conversations to be had about it, probably hundreds of more apologies between the two of you, probably a lot more crying and days just like this, tangled in shared sadness and maybe that wouldn’t fix what you were feeling, ore take away the grief and maybe it would be just like this for a while.

But you trusted him, and you trusted that you would be okay, that your relationship would be okay.

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judebellswife · 3 months ago

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Shattered Trust, Mended Hearts

— REQUESTED by ANON / REQUEST status: OPEN

— pairing • jude bellingham x soft!reader

— summary • Jude Bellingham, consumed by jealousy and fueled by rumors, believes his girlfriend is cheating on him. In a moment of anger, he refuses to let her explain, kicking her out of their shared apartment. Tragedy strikes when she gets into a life-threatening accident, leaving Jude overwhelmed by guilt and regret. With her in the hospital, he reflects on his mistakes and learns that love and trust are fragile but worth fighting for. Realizing that she never betrayed him, Jude is forced to confront his own insecurities. Together, they find a way to rebuild their broken relationship, restoring what was lost in a sea of misunderstanding and pain.

— warnings • Heavy angst, miscommunication, car accident, hospital scenes, mention of injuries, emotional turmoil.

"Jude, please, just listen to me—"

"I’ve already heard enough!" Jude's voice roared through the apartment, his anger palpable, bouncing off the walls like daggers. He stood in the kitchen, fists clenched, chest heaving, trying to contain the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. His dark eyes, usually so warm when they looked at you, were cold and distant, as if he couldn’t even recognize you.

You stood frozen near the door, the keys you had just placed on the entry table trembling under your fingers. You had no idea what you were walking into. Coming home after a long day at work, all you wanted was to relax with Jude, maybe watch a movie, talk about your day—but instead, you were met with fury.

"Jude," you whispered, your voice shaking, tears already welling in your eyes. "Please. Just tell me what’s going on."

He scoffed bitterly, turning away from you as he ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Don’t act like you don’t know," he muttered, his back to you now as he stared out the window into the rainy night.

You blinked, confused. "I—I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Jude whipped around, his expression dark. "Oh, don’t play innocent, Y/N. I know about you and Ryan."

The mention of Ryan's name hit you like a punch to the gut. Ryan was a colleague from work—someone you'd had to collaborate with closely for the last few weeks due to a project, but it had never been anything more than that. He was friendly, sure, but you never saw him in that way. You never even thought Jude would be suspicious. "Ryan? Jude, he's just a co-worker, we—"

"A co-worker? That’s funny, because that’s not what everyone else seems to think!" Jude's voice was dripping with bitterness, a tone you had never heard from him before. "Do you think I’m stupid? You think I don’t see the way you’ve been acting? Coming home late, spending more time with him than with me—"

You shook your head frantically, trying to approach him, but he stepped back, his face twisted in hurt and disbelief. "Jude, no, it's not like that! I swear, it’s just work! There’s nothing going on between me and Ryan, you have to believe me!"

But Jude wasn’t listening. He wasn’t hearing you. All he could see, all he could feel, was the poison that had been festering in his mind for days, the doubts and insecurities that had been fueled by whispers and rumors. He was blinded by his pain.

"You think I’m an idiot? You think I haven’t heard the rumors? Everyone’s been talking about it, Y/N. About how you and him have been seen together, laughing, having lunch, all those 'late nights' at the office. I bet they weren’t all about work, were they?"

You were shaking now, tears streaming down your face as you tried to reach out to him. "Jude, please. I would never—"

"I don’t want to hear it!" His voice cracked, loud and raw, and it silenced you. His anger was too much, too overwhelming. You had never seen him like this before—this angry, this distant. And it broke your heart to see the doubt in his eyes, the mistrust.

"I thought I knew you," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, almost more painful than his shouts. "I thought we had something real. But maybe I was wrong."

Your chest constricted painfully, your breath hitching as you reached for him one last time, desperate to hold on to something that was slipping away. "Jude, please," you whispered, your voice breaking. "Don’t do this. I love you."

But Jude’s gaze hardened. "If you loved me, you wouldn’t have lied to me."

The silence that followed was deafening, your heart shattering into a million pieces as he turned his back to you again, his next words sealing your fate.

"Get out."

You stood there, frozen, your mind racing as you tried to comprehend what he had just said. "What?"

"Get. Out," he repeated, his voice quiet but firm, as if he couldn’t even bear to look at you anymore. "I don’t want to see you right now."

Your world came crashing down in that moment, the weight of his words too much to bear. You opened your mouth to say something, to beg him to listen to you, but no words came out. You felt numb, completely broken.

With trembling hands, you grabbed your bag and stumbled toward the door, your vision blurry from the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. As you reached for the doorknob, you turned back one last time, hoping—praying—that Jude would stop you, that he would realize how wrong he was and call you back.

But he didn’t.

He stood there, rigid and unmoving, his eyes focused on the floor, his expression unreadable.

And so, you left.

The rain was relentless, soaking through your clothes as you stepped out onto the dark street. You wrapped your arms around yourself, shivering both from the cold and the overwhelming despair that consumed you. You couldn’t think straight. You couldn’t breathe. All you could do was walk, your feet moving without direction, aimlessly wandering the city streets, your mind still reeling from everything that had just happened.

How had things gone so wrong? How had the love you shared with Jude turned into this nightmare?

You pulled out your phone, trying to dial your friend’s number, but your hands were trembling too much to type properly. You managed to hit send, but as you crossed the street, you didn’t hear the roar of the car coming toward you until it was too late.

The blinding lights flashed before your eyes, and then— Nothing.

Jude sat on the couch, his hands covering his face as he let out a shaky breath. He had kicked you out. The realization sank in slowly, the weight of what he’d done pressing down on him like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

I kicked her out.

The anger that had burned so fiercely in him just moments ago was gone, replaced by a sickening sense of guilt and dread. The apartment felt too quiet, too empty without you there. And now, sitting there alone in the dark, he couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that something was terribly wrong.

His phone buzzed in his lap, dragging him out of his thoughts. It wasn’t a number he recognized.

"Hello?" His voice was hoarse, tired.

"Is this Jude Bellingham?" a woman’s voice asked, calm but urgent.

"Yes," he answered slowly, his heart beginning to race. "Who is this?"

"This is St. Mary’s Hospital. I’m calling about your partner. She’s been in an accident."

Jude felt the floor drop out from beneath him. "An accident? What—how bad is it?"

"She’s in critical condition. We need you to come to the hospital as soon as possible."

Jude’s legs felt like lead as he sprinted through the hospital’s sterile halls, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he reached the emergency ward. His heart pounded violently in his chest, panic rising with each step.

A nurse led him to your room, where the sight of you lying in the hospital bed, hooked up to machines, left him frozen in place.

His world shattered in that moment.

You were so pale, so still, and the beeping of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room. Jude sank into the chair by your bedside, his hands shaking as he reached out to take yours.

"I’m so sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking as tears filled his eyes. "God, I’m so sorry, *Y/N*. I didn’t mean any of it. I should’ve believed you."

He squeezed your hand gently, bringing it to his lips as his tears fell freely now. "Please wake up," he begged. "Please. I need you. I—I love you. I was so stupid. I should have trusted you."

The guilt gnawed at him, tearing him apart as he watched your chest rise and fall weakly with each breath. How had he let things spiral this far? Why hadn’t he listened? Why hadn’t he let you explain?

For three days, Jude didn’t leave your side. He barely slept, barely ate. He couldn’t think of anything else but you and how wrong he had been.

When your fingers twitched on the fourth day, Jude’s heart leapt in his chest.

Your eyes fluttered open, groggy and disoriented, the bright lights of the hospital room making you wince. Everything felt heavy, your body aching, and it took you a moment to remember what had happened.

"Y/N?" Jude’s voice was soft, but urgent, pulling you back to reality. You turned your head slowly, finding him sitting beside you, his face pale, eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying.

"Jude…" you whispered, your voice hoarse.

Jude reached for your hand, his fingers trembling as he held yours tightly. "I’m so sorry," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I was so wrong, *Y/N*. I was so stupid. I—I didn’t trust you, and I should have. I should have believed you. None of this—none of this would’ve happened if I hadn’t been such an idiot."

You blinked, trying to process everything, your heart aching at the sight of him so broken. "Jude…" you whispered again, trying to find the right words. "It’s okay."

"No, it’s not." He shook his head, tears spilling down his cheeks as he pressed your hand to his lips. "It’s not okay. I almost lost you because I was too caught up in my own insecurities to trust you. I should’ve known you would never… I should’ve known better."

You looked into his eyes, the raw pain and regret there clear as day, and despite everything—despite the accident, the pain, the heartache—you still loved him. You had always loved him. "Jude, I love you," you whispered, managing a small smile despite the tears in your own eyes. "I never wanted to hurt you. I would never cheat on you."

He let out a shuddering breath, leaning down to rest his forehead against your hand. "I know," he whispered. "I know now. And I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, I swear. If you’ll have me."

You squeezed his hand weakly, your voice soft but filled with emotion. "Of course I will. I’m not going anywhere."

Jude let out a soft, broken laugh through his tears, leaning in to gently press his lips to your forehead. "I love you so much," he whispered against your skin. "And I’m never letting you go again."

#jude bellingham #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham imagines #jude bellingham gif #jude bellingham x y/n #jude bellingham x you #jude bellingham oneshot #jude bellingham blurb #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham x fem!reader #jude bellingham one shot #jude bellingham angst #jude bellingham fluff

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bloddysnow · 4 months ago

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Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High?

Synopsis: You are summoned by Sylus in the middle of the night, a familiar occurrence whenever Sylus is drunk. Your encounter is filled with raw passion, where Sylus seeks solace in desperate sex as a way to cope with his inner turmoil.

warnings: nsfw minors dni. Sub! Sylus, soft dom! reader. reader is gn. (cock or strap), possessive behaviour, smoking, alcohol, anal sex. mention of masochism.

It’s three in the morning. The sky is dark, with stars peeking through the occasional cloud. The moon hides behind them, only occasionally slipping out to dimly light the street with its pale glow. You step out of the car, closing the door. The street is empty, everyone around is asleep, and only the sound of your footsteps can be heard.

You walk toward his house. The streetlight nearby casts a dim glow on the pavement, creating long shadows from the trees and bushes. A slight breeze rustles the branches.

You were asleep when the sharp ring of the phone jolted you from sweet slumber. You were ready to curse whoever woke you at such an hour until you saw who was calling.

You picked up the phone and brought it to your ear, still somewhere between sleep and reality. The voice on the other end was raspy, broken, with clear signs of drunkenness. He spoke softly, almost in a whisper:

"Could you come, please?"

As you get closer to the door, you notice that no lights are on. The house stands dark and still, almost abandoned. Pressing the doorbell, you wait, listening to faint sounds coming from inside. The door slowly opened.

Sylus appeared in front of you. He looks completely exhausted. Dark circles under his eyes suggest he hasn’t slept for several nights. He’s wearing a dark robe. His hair was wet, droplets of water clinging to the tips, as if he just got out of the shower.

He just stares at you for a moment, saying nothing, then steps aside, inviting you in without a word, leaving the questions for later.

As soon as the door quietly closes behind you, you feel Sylus suddenly pull you toward him. His lips find yours in a sudden, desperate kiss. He kisses you roughly, pushing you against the wall. His hands grip your clothes tightly, as if afraid you might slip away.

Your teeth clash against each other, and his tongue insistently invades your mouth, greedily sucking on your tongue, leaving you no room to breathe. You can taste the alcohol, and with every second, it becomes more and more apparent. This only makes the kiss wilder. His arms wrap tightly around your neck, pulling you even closer so that there’s no space between you.

Sylus suddenly pulled back, as if trying to control his emotions. He rests his head on your shoulder, his breathing becoming slightly more measured but still hot and heavy. You feel him take a deep breath of your scent. His voice is soft as he whispered directly into your ear:

“[name]… I need you as hell.”

This wasn’t the first time he drunk called you. Every time he was under stress, his only way to cope was to drink and then—call you. You knew this routine by heart: the late-night call, the raspy voice, and the plea to come. You knew that behind this was a deep emotional pain he could never express with words.

It was as if he was trying to drown something inside himself, and in sex with you, he sought comfort, or perhaps salvation. There were moments when, in the heat of passion, you noticed how his body trembled, and tears streamed down his cheeks while he held onto you.

Every time, it left you with mixed feelings. You kept coming because you understood that in those moments, he needed you the most, even though it was hard for you.

Each time you move faster, the leather couch squeaks, making rhythmic sounds.

At some point, you glance down and see Sylus’s body starting to convulse. His legs are tightly wrapped around your torso, knees tucked in, heels pressed against your back. His muscles tense up, and he throws his head back. You see him cum, his sperm spilling onto his own stomach. His face contorts in pleasure, eyes squinted, hands tremble as he clings to you, getting out his orgasm.

Finally, his body relaxed, hands slowly slipping off of you, and grip loosens. You could feel the tension leaving him, and as you get up, you sit beside him. Reaching for a pack of cigarettes, you took one, placing it between your lips, and with a flick of the lighter brought the flame to the edge. The first deep inhaled fills your lungs with smoke.

You heard the leather couch rustling quietly next to you. Sylus slowly moved, sitting on your lap. You pull the cigarette away so as not to accidentally hurt him. His face pressed against your neck. You gently run your hand through his hair, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"Sylus, you like it? Feel better now?"

He tilted his head to meet your gaze, staying silent for a few seconds, just looking into your eyes. There’s something in his gaze that you can’t quite comprehend. Slowly, without a word, he reached for your hand wich was holding the nearly smoked cigarette.

Sylus brought it to his chest and, without breaking eye contact, pressed the burning end against his skin, leaving a scorching mark. A soft sizzling sound is heard as it begins to go out. His face remained calm, but you can feel the tension in his body, see how the pain reflects in his breathing.

“I like everything you do with me [name].”

It was truly difficult to understand him. Every gesture, every emotional reaction seemed so contradictory. He was a person who hid his feelings behind masks and extremes, making his behavior almost unpredictable. You tried to make sense of it, but every time you felt like you were only scratching the surface of what was really going on inside him.

He lowered his gaze, the corners of his lips rise in a sly grin when he noticed that you’re hard again.

#dom reader #sub character #love and deepspace #sub love and deepspace #sub lads #sub l&ds #sylus x reader #sub sylus x reader #sub sylus #x reader #rafayel x reader #zayne x reader #xavier x reader

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reidmarieprentiss · 4 months ago

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Something Better

Summary: You overhear Spencer and Diana talking about JJ's confession, it hits too hard with the issues you and Spencer have been experiencing.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: angst, hurt

Warnings/Includes: crying, insecurities, fighting, leaving

Word count: 2.5k

a/n: sorry!!!! i am notttt having a good time in my relationship (he doesn’t know we’re in a relationship)

main masterlist part two

The complexity of your relationship with Spencer had deepened significantly, ever since the enigmatic and dangerous Cat Adams had entered the picture. Understanding the nature of Spencer's job, you had been kept well-informed about his interactions with Cat, ensuring that you were on the same page with him throughout this unsettling chapter. You and Spencer had been together for four years, a relationship that was marked not only by affection but also by the trials that had weathered your joint experiences, including Spencer's traumatic stint in prison. Amidst the turmoil, recent events had only added to the strain: Spencer had once again found himself a hostage, and in those fraught moments, JJ had confessed her love for him.

This unexpected confession stirred a troubling mix of emotions within you. Despite your deep-seated trust and the solid foundation you had built together, insecurities bubbled to the surface. The knowledge of Spencer's initial crush on JJ during his early days at the BAU added layers of doubt and fear. You couldn't help but wonder about the what-ifs—whether Spencer harbored any regrets about the path he had chosen with you instead.

—

As you held the tray with steaming mugs of tea, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into your palms, your intention was simple: to bring a small comfort to the room where Spencer and his mother, Diana, were deep in conversation. But the words that drifted through the slightly ajar door halted you in your tracks, the comforting heat from the cups suddenly replaced by a cold grip of fear tightening around your heart.

“You think that’s what I’ve been doing? Closing myself off to possibilities because I’m waiting for JJ?” Spencer's voice carried a mix of confusion and introspection, a tone you recognized all too well.

“I hope not,” Diana’s response was gentle, yet it carried an undeniable weight of concern.

The gravity of the conversation, the raw honesty of the words spoken, pierced through the veil of assurances and understandings that had surrounded your relationship with Spencer. The mention of JJ, with the concept of ‘possibilities’ he might be closing off, struck a vulnerable chord. It echoed the very insecurities that had been gnawing at you—fears of being a placeholder, of not being the ultimate choice but rather the safe harbor in the storm of his complex life.

The impact of this realization was instantaneous and visceral. The ceramic mugs slipped from your numb fingers, shattering on the floor as a symbolic fracture mirrored in your composure. A sob escaped your lips—a sound of pain so raw it seemed to carry the weight of every doubt and every shadow of fear that had gathered in the corners of your relationship.

“What was that?” Diana’s voice was sharp with alarm, slicing through the tense air as the sound of the breaking mugs echoed down the hall.

Unable to face them, to see the concern or confusion on Spencer’s face, you turned and fled down the hallway. The coolness of the walls was a stark contrast to the pain burning inside you as each step took you further from the room, from the conversation, from the man you loved yet suddenly felt miles away from. Your mind raced, caught in a whirlwind of emotion and a desperate need for solitude, a space to breathe and to grasp the full meaning of what you had just overheard.

“I’ll go check it out, Mom,” Spencer said, patting his moms hands.

Spencer's heart thudded with increasing urgency as he navigated the hallway, his eyes scanning the chaotic scene of shattered mugs and spilled tea, a silent testament to a sudden departure fueled by distress. "Y/N?" he called out again, his voice tinged with confusion and concern. The lack of response only heightened his worry, each unanswered call amplifying the fear that something was profoundly wrong.

As he passed by a window, his gaze inadvertently swept over the driveway, catching the sight of you getting into your car. The pieces clicked together in his mind, albeit without understanding the why behind your actions. His concern morphed into sheer panic, propelling him into a jog as he made his way swiftly towards the front door, his mind racing with possible reasons for your abrupt exit.

Reaching the door, he flung it open and stepped out into the cool air, his breath visible in the quiet of the afternoon. "Y/N, wait!" he shouted, hoping to catch your attention before you could drive away. His voice carried a desperate edge, a plea woven through the urgency.

Spencer's mind was a whirlwind of worry and bewilderment. He had no clue what had triggered your sudden need to escape, no understanding of the emotional turmoil that had driven you to such a rapid departure. As he jogged towards the car, his only thought was to stop you, to understand, to fix whatever had gone wrong, unaware of the conversation you had overheard and the doubts it had reignited within you.

He reached the car just as you were about to start the engine, his expression full of fear, confusion, and concern. His hands gestured slightly, asking for a moment of your time, his eyes pleading for you to stay, to talk, to explain what had caused this rift to suddenly appear between you.

As the window descended, revealing your tear-streaked face and the distress clearly written across your features, Spencer’s heart sank even further. The sight of you so visibly upset was enough to tighten the already squeezing panic in his chest.

“What happened?” he asked again, his voice rough from the sprint and the growing dread. He leaned closer, his eyes searching yours for an answer, for anything that could explain the sudden shift in the day.

“I don’t want to hold you back from anything,” you managed to say between sniffles, the words muffled slightly by your emotional state. Your voice was thick with pain, each word laden with the weight of your fears.

“What?” Spencer’s confusion deepened, his brows knitting together as he tried to decipher the meaning behind your words. His face fell, a mix of worry and incomprehension as he struggled to connect the dots. He reached out tentatively, resting his hand against the car door, needing some physical connection to bridge the gap that the conversation had opened between you.

“You’re not holding me back, Y/N. Please, tell me what’s going on,” Spencer urged, his tone softening, trying to provide a calm amid the storm of emotions swirling around you both. His eyes held yours, filled with concern and a plea for clarity, as he tried to understand the source of your sudden decision to leave.

As you struggled with the words, each one a reflection of the turmoil within, Spencer's expression shifted from confusion to a dawning realization of the depth of your concerns.

"Why haven't you proposed, Spencer?" The question came out choked, a manifestation of the culmination of doubts and fears that had been gathering, fueled by recent events and lingering insecurities.

"Y/N...what? What is happening?" Spencer's voice was tinged with a blend of confusion and fear, grappling with the sudden confrontation of an issue he hadn't realized was so pressing in your mind.

You shook your head slowly, signaling the seriousness of your need for an answer. "Just answer me," you said quietly, a firm resolve underlying your soft tone.

"I don't... I don't know," Spencer admitted, his voice faltering. His uncertainty was palpable, reflecting his own confusion about the future and his feelings about where your relationship stood, especially in light of his recent traumas and challenges.

"That's not good enough for me," you stated, the pain in your voice evident as you began to roll up the window, a physical manifestation of the emotional barrier you felt compelled to erect in the face of his indecision.

Spencer's heart raced as he saw the window closing, a barrier rising not just between him and the outside air, but between him and you. He placed his hand against the glass, a silent plea for you to stop and listen.

"Please, Y/N, wait," Spencer's voice cracked, his usual composure unraveled by the intensity of the moment. "I love you. I'm just... I've been dealing with a lot, and I didn't realize you felt this way. Can we just talk about this? Please?" His words rushed out in a torrent of emotion, a mix of apology and confusion, desperately trying to bridge the growing gap with his earnestness and vulnerability.

The tension in the air thickened as you left the window half-cracked, Spencer stood rooted to the spot, his heart heavy with the burden of your words.

"I know you’re going through a lot...I understand, I’ve been here with you through it all," you said, your voice steadier now, each word deliberate. Taking a deep breath, you lifted your gaze to meet Spencer's, the pain in your eyes a clear reflection of the turmoil within. "Are you waiting for something better?"

The question hit Spencer like a physical blow, leaving him momentarily breathless, his mind reeling. "Something better? You’re the best there is, Y/N," he managed to say, his voice laden with sincerity and a touch of desperation, wanting nothing more than to dispel your doubts.

That response, however, triggered a shift from sadness to anger. "Then why did you tell your mom you’re waiting for JJ?" you yelled, the volume of your voice a stark contrast to the quiet despair of moments before.

Spencer's face paled, the accusation and the misunderstanding cutting deep. "No, Y/N, that’s not what I meant," he stammered, his mind racing to correct the misunderstanding. "It was taken out of context. I was talking about not closing myself off to healing, to moving forward with my life, which means with you. JJ's confession threw me off, yes, but it doesn’t change how I feel about you. I love you, and I'm not waiting for anyone else."

He stepped closer to the car, his expression earnest, almost pleading. "I haven't proposed because I've been scared—scared of not being enough for you with all my baggage. But I know that's no excuse. You deserve certainty, and I've been unfair. I'm sorry for making you feel this way."

Spencer’s eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of understanding or forgiveness, hoping his words could bridge the gap that had opened up between you, driven by fears and miscommunications.

Your glare didn't waver as Spencer began to unravel the layers of the conversation you had misinterpreted, each word weighed with a heavy mix of regret and urgency to clarify the misunderstanding. He shifted uncomfortably under your intense gaze, knowing how crucial this moment was to salvage the trust and future of your relationship.

“Bullshit,” you had said, the sharpness in your voice slicing through the air.

“What?” Spencer’s confusion was evident, a mixture of desperation and hurt flashing across his features.

“That’s bullshit, Spencer. Tell me the truth,” you pressed, your voice firm, demanding honesty over comforting lies.

Spencer took a deep, steadying breath, recognizing the necessity of complete transparency. “Fine. My mom…she wants grandkids, she wanted to know why we hadn’t given her any. I told her the truth, I’m scared to bring children into this world.” His admission came out in a rush, a confession of his deepest fears about fatherhood and the future.

You continued to glare, silently urging him to continue, to explain every nuance of the conversation that had driven you to such a state of distress.

“She asked if I thought JJ made a mistake having kids. I didn’t know what to say. She thought I was being quiet because I was upset about JJ being with Will, which I am not—definitely not. And that’s what you must have heard,” Spencer explained, his voice earnest, pleading with you to understand the context and his true feelings.

The air between you seemed charged with his words, each sentence he spoke unraveling the knot of misunderstanding that had tightened around your heart. His explanation painted a different picture, one not of longing for another but of fear and apprehension about a future he felt unequipped to navigate.

Your expression softened slightly, the initial rush of anger ebbing as the truth of his words began to resonate. The misunderstanding had morphed your fear into anger, but with his honest explanation, the foundations of trust began to show signs of mending.

Spencer watched you carefully, gauging your reaction, hoping that his honesty and the vulnerability he displayed would be enough to start healing the rift that had formed. His eyes conveyed a silent plea for forgiveness, his posture open and unguarded as he stood before you, laid bare by his confessions.

“Okay,” you had said simply, leaving Spencer clinging to that word as if it were a lifeline in the turbulent sea of your relationship.

“Okay? Is that—is that all? Are we okay?” His voice was tinged with uncertainty, searching for more reassurance, more solidity than the ambiguous affirmation offered.

“I don’t know,” you replied, the honesty in your voice reflecting the turmoil within.

“Y/N...please, I love you so much,” Spencer implored, his words thick with emotion, his eyes begging you to see the depth of his sincerity.

“I love you too, but saying it and showing it are two different things,” you sighed, the weariness in your voice painting a vivid picture of your emotional state. “You’re my world, Spencer. I just want to feel like I’m yours too. Can I go please?”

His heart sank with those words, a stark reminder of the disconnect that had formed between your perceptions of the relationship. “Go? Go where? You’re leaving?” The panic was evident in his voice, his mind racing through scenarios of loss and loneliness.

“I need to be alone right now. Can you catch a cab?” you asked, your tone resolute yet gentle, not wanting to hurt him but needing the space to sort through your swirling thoughts.

“Are you breaking up with me?” The question was out before he could stop it, a fear-driven reflex.

“No,” was your simple, firm reply, a small comfort amid the storm.

Spencer nodded, accepting your need even as it pained him. “I can get a cab. I love you, darling. So, so, so much.” His words were a whispered caress, an affirmation of everything he felt, everything he hoped for despite the current heartache.

“I love you too,” you responded, a whisper of reciprocation that served as a temporary balm to his aching heart.

With that, you drove off, leaving Spencer watching the space where you had been, his mind heavy with love and fear. He pulled out his phone to arrange a ride, his heart clenching in his chest.

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tag list <333 @dirtytissuebox @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle

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moonxknightx · 4 months ago

Text

♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ : MORE THAN WORDS : :;

╰┈➤ ❝ [PAIRING] ❞ Logan Howlett x F!Reader

・❥・GENRE: Fluff and a bit of angst

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆FANDOM: X-Men

ੈ✩‧₊˚ WARNINGS: Pregnancy, Emotional Angst, Brief Mention of Fear of Abandonment, Discussion of Uncertainty About Parenthood

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥SUMMARY: You find out you're pregnant with Logan's baby and confide in your sister Jean, unsure how to tell him. With her support, you eventually tell Logan, who’s initially shocked but reassures you he’s not leaving, and the two of you commit to facing the future together.

Based on this request

THE SKY OUTSIDE WAS SOFT WITH THE EARLY LIGHT OF DAWN, casting a warm glow through the large windows of Xavier's School. You stood in the kitchen, gripping a mug of tea between both hands, but you couldn’t bring yourself to take a sip. The steam swirled up, almost hypnotic, but your mind was far away from the present moment.

You were pregnant.

Logan’s child was growing inside you, and the weight of that realization felt like an anchor pulling you deeper into your own thoughts. How could you tell him? His life had been filled with so much pain, loss, and isolation. What if this wasn’t something he wanted? Or worse, what if this was something he couldn’t handle? The questions swirled around in your head like a storm.

And then there was Jean—your sister. She would know what to do. She always did.

You needed to talk to her.

You found her in the garden, seated on one of the stone benches with a book resting in her lap. Her red hair glistened in the sunlight as the soft breeze carried the scent of flowers and freshly cut grass through the air. You stood there for a moment, watching her, wondering how to even begin.

She glanced up before you could even make a sound, her green eyes immediately softening as she saw the turmoil on your face. “Hey,” she said gently, closing the book and setting it aside. “What’s going on?”

You sat down beside her, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, feeling the weight of the unspoken words pressing against your chest. “Jean, I—I need to tell you something, but I don’t know how to say it.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, concern creeping into her voice. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You let out a shaky breath, your eyes focusing on the ground as if it held the answers you were searching for. “I’m pregnant, Jean.”

There was a pause. Silence hung in the air between you for what felt like an eternity before Jean spoke, her voice soft with surprise. “Pregnant?” She turned to face you, her hand gently resting on your arm. “Oh my god… does Logan know?”

You shook your head quickly, the thought of that conversation sending a fresh wave of anxiety through your veins. “No, he doesn’t. I haven’t told him yet. I don’t know how.”

Jean’s face softened, and she squeezed your arm reassuringly. “Hey, it’s going to be okay. Logan loves you. He’ll understand.”

You scoffed lightly, not because you didn’t believe her, but because you didn’t know if Logan knew *how* to deal with something like this. “Jean… he’s been through so much. I don’t want to bring more chaos into his life. He already has enough of that.”

Jean sighed, her eyes thoughtful as she considered your words. “I get it. Logan’s life has been hard—harder than most. But this isn’t chaos. This is something beautiful, something new. You’re not throwing him into more pain. You’re giving him a future.”

You looked at her, biting your lip. “But what if he doesn’t want it? What if this… if I… if we’re not what he needs?”

Jean paused, letting the question linger in the air. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze filled with understanding. “You won’t know until you tell him. But you can’t carry this alone. You’re not alone in this.” She brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “And Logan isn’t the kind of man who would just walk away from something like this. He’s been fighting for a family for years, whether he knows it or not.”

You nodded slowly, her words sinking in, but your heart was still racing. “How do I even start? How do you tell someone something like this?”

Jean smiled gently, trying to ease your fears. “There’s no perfect way. Just tell him the truth. Be honest with him, and let him process it how he needs to. You’re both in this together, remember?”

The thought gave you some strength. Together. You and Logan had always faced the world together, no matter what. Maybe this would be no different.

“I’m scared, Jean,” you admitted, your voice a whisper.

“I know,” she said softly. “But you don’t have to do this alone.”

You gave her a weak smile, feeling some of the weight lift off your chest. “Thanks. I… I just needed to hear that.”

She leaned in and hugged you tightly. “You’ve got this. And if you need me, I’m here, okay?”

You nodded, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Now came the hard part.

You found Logan later that day in the garage, working on one of the old motorcycles. The sight of him, rugged and focused, usually made your heart skip in that familiar way, but today it only heightened your nerves. He wiped the grease from his hands with a rag, looking up when he noticed you standing there.

“Hey, darlin’,” Logan said, his voice low and gruff, though his eyes softened when they landed on you. “You okay? You’ve been quiet all day.”

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what had to be said. “Can we talk?”

Logan raised an eyebrow, immediately sensing something was up. “’Course. What’s goin’ on?”

You walked closer, feeling your heart pound in your chest. There was no turning back now. “Logan… I don’t really know how to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it.”

He set the rag down, giving you his full attention, concern etched in his expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m pregnant,” you blurted out, your voice barely above a whisper.

The words hung in the air between you, and you watched as Logan’s face went blank for a moment. His hands stilled, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, you feared the worst—that this was too much for him, that he would shut down or push you away.

But then his brow furrowed, his lips parting as he struggled to find the right words. “You… you’re sure?”

You nodded, biting your lip nervously. “I found out a few days ago. I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you.”

Logan stared at you, his intense gaze searching your face for any sign of doubt. Slowly, his hand reached out, resting against your stomach, almost as if he needed to feel it to believe it. His fingers were gentle, the contrast to his usual gruffness catching you off guard.

“You’re havin’ my kid,” he muttered under his breath, almost like he was trying to wrap his head around it.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your eyes fixed on his face, watching for any sign of how he was feeling.

There was a long pause before he looked up at you again, his expression unreadable. “How long have you known?”

“A few days. I wanted to tell you sooner, but… I didn’t know how you’d react.”

Logan’s hand stayed where it was, his thumb unconsciously stroking your skin as he took in a deep breath. “I’m not gonna lie… this is a lot. I wasn’t expectin’ it.”

“I know,” you said quickly, feeling your heart race. “I didn’t expect it either. And if you’re not ready for this, I—”

“Stop,” he cut you off gently, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that took your breath away. “This is… hell, I don’t know what this is. But I know one thing—I’m not leavin’ you. I’m not walkin’ away from this.”

You blinked, surprise flooding through you. “Logan…”

“I’m not good at this stuff,” he admitted, his voice rough but steady. “I ain’t ever had somethin’ like this. But I want it. I want this with you.” His voice grew softer, more vulnerable. “I don’t know how to be a father… but I’ll try.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you let out a shaky laugh, overwhelmed with relief. “I don’t know what I’m doing either, but we’ll figure it out.”

Logan’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you close as he rested his chin on top of your head. His embrace was solid, unyielding, as if he were silently promising that he would be there, no matter what came next.

“We’ll figure it out together,” he murmured, and for the first time that day, you believed it.

🏷️: @twinky-wink @fidgetingbee @astarions-girl-dinner @layladestiny8 @birdy-bat-writes @h0n3y-l3m0n05

If you want to be added to the tag list, let me know! 🫶

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett fluff #wolverine x reader #deadpool and wolverine #hugh jackman #logan howlett imagine #x men x reader

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zyhkoo · 3 months ago

Text

☆ Birds of a feather

angst, jason x gn!reader, ‘doll’ being used

Jason can’t love you the way you do.

a/n: hi everyone! my friend help me with this one, give a round of applause to her! i shall do my requests soon, i’m just busy.

You loved Jason, the two of you have been glued to the hip for who knows when. You have been there since he was still Robin, and now as Red Hood. Your bond was unparalleled, a friendship strong enough to withstand any storm. The kind of connection one only dreams of finding.

Everyone who knew the two of you was acutely aware of your unshakeable bond. It was an almost tangible presence, as if the two of you were tethered together by an invisible force. You were rarely ever seen without the other, so much so that your names were often mentioned in the same breath.

Jason's emotional struggles with romance were a reality that you had come to accept. Despite the deep connection the two of you shared, he was plagued by an internal turmoil that made the prospect of a romantic relationship unattainable for him.

You, for your part, had come to understand and accept this aspect of his nature, recognizing that the bond between the two of you was not defined by romantic love, but by a deep, unwavering loyalty and friendship.

You longed for the comfort of knowing that Jason would always be by your side, even in the face of death itself. The thought of him staying with you until you were laid in the grave, dead and buried, and carried away in a casket, brought an intense sense of security and comfort. If Jason ever decided to leave, you knew that you wouldn't be far behind. It was always him for you, and there was nothing that could change that.

Jason, too, was acutely aware of your unwavering loyalty to him. Knowing that you would follow him to the ends of the earth, no matter what hardships or trials he faced. It was a knowledge that weighed heavily on him, knowing that your fate was intertwined with his own.

Your unshakeable devotion stirred within him a complex mix of emotions- pride in your loyalty, coupled with a pang of guilt. Pride because he knew you would always stick by his side, no matter the consequences.

Jason was acutely aware of how much your unrequited feelings for him were causing you pain. Despite his own internal struggles with romance, he recognized that your love for him was deep and unwavering. He knew how much it hurt you for him to not be able to return your romantic feelings, and he felt immense guilt for causing you such pain.

He often struggled with the knowledge that he could never give you what you desired the most from him, and this realization weighed heavily on his heart. It pained him to know that he could never fulfill the romantic hopes and dreams of the one person who meant the world to him.

The two of you were in a bookstore, surrounded by stacks of leather-bound volumes and the scent of aged paper. Jason was the one who introduced you to the world of books. He led you through the labyrinthine shelves, his fingers brushing against the spines of the books with a reverence that spoke of his deep connection to the written word. The two of you shared a comfortable silence, both finding solace in the pages that surrounded you.

You took several books on the shelves, placing them in the small shopping carts that they provided. “I got enough for the whole summer,” you said, turning to him. “What about you?” Jason shrugged and picked up a few books to add to the cart, “I’m not far behind.”

He picks up a book, it was about a loyal man who reunited with his dead wife. He stood there for a moment, holding the book in his hand and staring at the cover. This was a tale that typically ended on a happy note.

But his thoughts lingered on a different kind of ending, one that didn't necessarily have a happy ending. He thought about the two of you, your unwavering loyalty and how despite your devotion, there wasn't the same romantic element present. You noticed the melancholy expression that crossed his face, and you could sense that something was weighing heavily on his mind.

You approached him, and gently asked, "Is there something on your mind?”

He looked up at you, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment before he averted his gaze.

“It’s nothing, doll.” he responded, his voice trailing off as he absently flipped through the pages of the book in his hands.

You shrugged, not wanting to press him too much. You knew that Jason often preferred to keep his emotions and thoughts close to his chest, and trying to get him to open up could sometimes feel like pulling teeth. You busied yourself with the other books in the cart, trying to give him a moment to work through whatever was troubling him.

Eventually, the two of you arrived at his apartment, as he unlocked the door and ushered you inside, he felt a pang of unease in his chest. He needed to discuss something important with you.

“So, what are we doing? Movie night? Mario kart?” you said with a smile. Jason forced a smile in response, the tension in his chest tightening further. "Actually," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I wanted to talk to you about something. Something important."

A pit formed in your stomach, talk about what exactly? You placed your books down on the coffee table and looked back at his gaze. “Yeah, what’s up?”

Jason took a deep breath before speaking again. "I've been having somethin’ lately, doll." he said, his voice quieter now. "About our friendship."

Your heart sank a little at his words, your mind immediately jumping to worst-case scenarios. He doesn't want to be friends anymore, you thought to yourself. He's pulling away, getting distant. Was he going to say what you were dreading to hear?

Jason noticed the look on your face and quickly spoke up again. "It's not anything bad," he hurried to reassure you. "I've been goin’ through some stuff. And I think we need to talk about where we stand." You relaxed slightly at his words, albeit a bit puzzled. You looked at him questioningly, silently encouraging him to continue.

"Our friendship is... important to me, doll." he sighed, meeting your gaze. "You're the most important person in my life. But I can't jus’ ignore fact that..." He paused, his sentence hanging in the air. Your mind raced with possibilities, trying to decipher what he was trying to say. You could feel the tension in the air, and your heart was pounding in your chest.

"I know how you feel about me," he said, "I know you want more."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. He knew. He had been aware this whole time, and he had said nothing. Your mind raced, a million thoughts and emotions swirling within you.

"I want to be honest with you," he continued, "And I don't want to hurt you. But I can't give you what you want. I can't give you that kind of love. It’s not something I can do."

Your heart ached at his words, the weight of them hitting you like a ton of bricks. You had hoped, deep down, that maybe he would reciprocate your feelings. But now, the reality was crushing your heart into pieces.

Jason's expression was one of guilt and remorse. "It hurts me too," he said, his voice tinged with sadness. "Seeing you wanting something from me that I can't give. It's like a constant knife in my chest, knowing that I can't make you happy the way you deserve." You held his hand “It’s okay,” you forced a smile “It’s okay if you don’t. My friendship with you, it's very important.”

Jason's grip on your hand tightened slightly. "You say that, but I know it's not true," he said, "I see the way you look at me doll, the way you longingly touch my hand or lean in closer. It's not just friendship for you, and deep down, we both know it."

Your heart clenched at his words. He was right, you couldn't deny it. But you didn't want to push him away or make him feel guilty for something he couldn't control. So, you just smiled again. "It's really okay," you repeated, trying to sound more convincing this time. "We'll... we'll make it work, right? Just us, as friends."

He knew that you were putting on a brave front for him, trying to downplay your own feelings in order to salvage the friendship. He wanted to say more, to try to explain the reasons behind his inability to reciprocate your feelings. But he knew that it would only make matters worse. So, he just squeezed your hand tighter, "Sure doll," he said softly. "Just us, as friends."

You softly chuckled “Doll,” you repeated “You never stopped calling me that.” Jason forced a smile, his heart aching at the familiarity of the nickname. It was one of the many reminders of your closeness, a testament to the deep bond you shared.

"Old habits die hard, I guess," he said. The irony of the nickname suddenly weighed heavily on him. Doll was a term of endearment, a term that typically invoked feelings of love. And yet here he was, the person who had never been able to feel those things for you, calling ypu ‘doll.’

"I probably should stop callin’ you that," he said quietly. "No," you said quickly, not wanting to cause more pain than either of you were already experiencing. "I like it. It's... comforting, coming from you."

"If you're sure," he said quietly. You smiled softly, trying to reassure him that it was genuinely alright. "Yeah, I'm sure," you said, your voice full of genuine affection. "It's our thing, right? Don't overthink it."

He wanted to believe that things could continue as they were between the two of you, that he could still hold onto the one person who meant more to him than anything else in the world. "Okay, doll," he said, his voice cracking slightly, "If that's what you want. We'll keep it our thing."

When you come back home, you quietly weep. You don't know what you’re crying for.

"I don’t think I could love him more..." you whispered to yourself between sobs. The depth of your feelings for him was overwhelming, but the fact that he didn't feel the same way left you feeling empty and defeated.

Your mind was swirling with conflicting thoughts. Part of you wanted to keep the relationship as it was, grateful for the intimacy and companionship you shared. Another part of you wrestled with the frustration and pain of a one-sided love. Each tear that fell felt like a small piece of your heart breaking, but you couldn't bring yourself to walk away. Despite the pain, Jason meant the world to you, and the thought of losing him was unbearable.

🦢 hello guys? did you cry? i didn’t haha, please like and reblog! discord server.

#౨ৎ blythe’s fics #dc x reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd x reader oneshots #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd oneshots #jason todd #jason todd angst #jason todd imagines #jason todd headcanons

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coff33andb00ks · 5 months ago

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More Than Anything

oscar piastri x pop!singer reader x lando norris (with charles leclerc)

summary: In the spotlight's harsh glare, she shattered into a million pieces, then found redemption in an unexpected place warnings: language notes: complete rework of Until You because i wasn't happy with that that still follows the same premise and yes reuses a lot of the same things, but i promise it's different (better) - also a very special thank you to @driverlando for her help with this

Heartbreak and Hits: Y/N Y/L/N and Justin Bieber’s Rocky Romance Ends in Tears and Tunes

The whirlwind romance between pop sensation Y/N Y/L/N and global superstar Justin Bieber has come to a dramatic and emotional end. After nearly three years of ups, downs, and endless speculation, Y/N has finally confirmed their breakup in a raw and revealing Instagram post. The announcement comes just days before she’s set to kick off her highly anticipated world tour, leaving fans both heartbroken and intrigued by what’s to come.

A Love Story Born at the Grammys

Y/N and Justin’s relationship began in 2021 after a chance meeting at the Grammy Awards. The pair hit it off instantly, with insiders describing their connection as “electric.” Despite their undeniable chemistry, the couple’s relationship was far from smooth sailing. Rumours of infidelity, intense public scrutiny, and the pressures of their respective careers often overshadowed their love story.

Cheating Allegations and Cryptic Songs

As their relationship progressed, whispers of trouble in paradise began to circulate. By late 2022, rumours of Justin’s alleged infidelity started making headlines. While neither Y/N nor Justin addressed the cheating allegations directly, fans couldn’t help but notice the shift in Y/N’s music. Her lyrics became darker, more introspective, and filled with themes of betrayal and heartbreak.

Y/N’s 2023 album was particularly telling, with several tracks seemingly alluding to the turmoil in her relationship. While she never mentioned Justin by name, the lyrics spoke volumes. Lines like, “I gave you my heart, but you broke it in two,” and “Trust is a fragile thing, you shattered it with a fling,” had fans speculating that she was using her music to process the pain of her partner’s alleged unfaithfulness.

The Engagement Ring Mystery

In mid-2023, Y/N was spotted with what appeared to be an engagement ring, sparking a fresh wave of speculation about her relationship with Justin. The ring, a stunning piece with a massive diamond, was the talk of the town. Was this a sign that the couple had worked through their issues? Or was it a desperate attempt to save a crumbling relationship?

For months, fans and tabloids alike debated the significance of the ring, but Y/N remained tight-lipped, neither confirming nor denying an engagement. Their public appearances together became increasingly rare, leading to more speculation about the true state of their relationship.

The Bitter End

Early 2024 brought the final, heart-wrenching chapter of Y/N and Justin’s love story. Y/N took to Instagram to announce their breakup in a post that was equal parts salty and heartbreaking. “Sometimes love isn’t enough,” she wrote. “I thought we had forever, but it turns out, I was wrong. Moving on isn’t easy, but it’s necessary, especially when your partner does not respect you.”

The post quickly went viral, with fans flooding her comments section with messages of support. While Y/N didn’t go into specifics, her tone was clear: she was deeply hurt, and the breakup was far from amicable. The caption, coupled with the timing—just a week before her world tour was set to begin—left many wondering how she would cope with the demands of performing live night after night, while still nursing a broken heart.

What’s Next for Y/N?

As Y/N prepares to embark on her tour, fans are eagerly anticipating how this emotional rollercoaster will influence her performances. Known for her raw and authentic stage presence, it’s likely that the breakup—and the feelings surrounding it—will play a significant role in her shows.

Industry insiders predict that the tour could be a cathartic experience for Y/N, allowing her to channel her pain into powerful performances. “Y/N’s always been an open book with her music,” a close friend of the singer revealed. “This tour is going to be intense, emotional, and maybe even a bit therapeutic for her. She’s hurting, but she’s also a professional. She’ll pour all of that emotion into her music.”

While the world waits to see if Justin will respond to the Instagram post, it’s clear that Y/N is ready to move forward, albeit with a heavy heart. As she embarks on her tour, fans will be watching closely, eager to support her through this challenging time and to witness how her heartbreak will shape her music and her future.

Stay tuned for more updates as Y/N’s tour kicks off, and the next chapter of her life unfolds.

liked by charles_leclrec, landonorris, pierregasly and others ynyln: Merci beaucoup, Paris! Je t'aime et à bientôt!! ❤️💋

↳user3: why are f1 drivers here??? ↳ user4: a few were at the show ↳user5: and she's always been vocal about being a fan ↳pierregasly: magnifique spectacle, rendez-vous à Monaco! ↳user4: omg she's going to Monaco! ↳ user9: FINALLY she gets to see a grand prix ↳ user8: almost 6 months in and each show gets better ↳ user7: her breakup was the best thing to happen ↳ user9: real ↳ user6: y'all seen the videos of the f1 guys? ↳user7: my two worlds colliding

liked by ynyln and others f1goss: Charles Leclerc and Pierre Gasly at Y/N Y/L/N's concert in Paris!

↳user1: Y/N IN THE LIKES?? ↳ user2: Y/N follows 😭 ↳ynyln: omg 👁️👄👁️ ↳ user2: Y/N WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE ↳ user3: she's so unserious ↳user4: i wonder if they got to meet ↳ ynyln: no we didn't 😩

liked by landonorris, charles_leclrec, scuderriaferrari and others ynyln: For the first time I will be attending a Grand Prix! Vroom vrooms make my heart go brr. Eternally grateful to scuderiaferrari for the invitation. (They don't have to know my favorite driver is on mclaren)

↳scuderiaferrari: 🤨 ↳scuderiaferrari: we're sure you'll be a converted tifosi by Sunday ↳mclaren: y/n is our fan 🙏🏻 Oscar and Lando on cloud 9 now ↳f1: looking forward to finally welcoming you! ↳user1: alright y'all is she a Lando or Oscar girlie ↳ ynyln: can't I love them both 🥺 ↳user2: great now I gotta watch all the grand prix stuff this week for a glimpse of mother ↳user3: why haven't you been before? ↳ user4: tours, covid, j*stin...

liked by charles_leclrec, oscarpiastri, landonorris, and others ynyln: Dinner in Monte Carlo. Do I go all in on black or red?

↳ scuderriaferrari: red, obviously ↳ landonorris: black ↳ charles_leclerc: Red ↳ maxverstappen1: Black ↳ ynyln: all these blue check marks 😩 ↳ user2: yn stays forgetting she's the biggest blue check mark ↳ user1: not max joining in the mclaren vs ferrari fight for YN ↳ mclaren: Papaya 🥺 (but black) ↳ scuderiaferrari: go comment on your own guest's posts ↳ mclaren: you sent the invite after we mentioned doing it ↳ landonorris: do better admin ↳ mclaren: We'll get her next time ↳ redbullracing: not if we get her first ↳ landonorris: if not we're going on strike ↳ oscarpiastri: we what ↳ oscarpiastri: I quite like the red ↳ user3: I love that YN asked opinions on her fit but it's just f1 drivers and admins fighting over her 🍿🍿 (liked by author) ↳ ynyln: it's amazing right? no one's fought over me before ↳ user3: bffr ↳ redbullracing: we vote blue ↳ mclaren: that's not an option? ↳ redbullracing: we still vote blue ↳ scuderiaferrari: don't you have an energy drink to go sell ↳ user4: came for the pics, stayed for the f1 chaos ↳ ynyln: giggling all the way to the restaurant honestly

note: I know it's not HUGELY different (yet) but I will be taking it in a slightly different direction. Also using Until You's taglist, so if any of you don't want to follow this just use the form to be removed please

Taglist:

be added (or removed) to my taglist here

#f1 #formula 1 #oscar piastri #charles leclerc #lando norris #charles leclerc smau #f1 x reader #f1 smau #f1 fanfic #oscar piastri smau #lando norris smau #my writings > mta

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cherriready · 5 months ago

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By order of the King

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Reader, Helaena Targaryen x Niece!Reader (Possibly in the future), Aegon Targaryen x Niece!Reader (Possibly in the future)

WC: 2.4k

Summary: Amidst political turmoil and family feuds, the only and eldest Velaryon daughter, struggles through a tumultuous marriage arranged for strategic gain that quickly escalates into betrayal and tragedy. As she grapples with grief and tensions mount, she faces heartache and sorrow, she grapples with her future as a looming conflict threatens to engulf her in a web of deceit and fear.

Warnings: Mature themes, sexual content (mentioned and lightly described), power dynamics, toxic relationship, violence and death, incestuous overtones, emotional turmoil, psychological themes, character deaths, ambiguous morality.

If you wish to be tagged let me know :)

Not only was war about to break out, ready to blow everything up — including the Targaryen dynasty. Her damn marriage of convenience was also about to explode.

It was King Viserys, her grandfather, who proposed the marriage between his eldest granddaughter and his second son, Aemond Targaryen. The idea was not well-received by any of the black team's supporters, especially Rhaenyra Targaryen, but having to ensure that her son Luke was the heir to Driftmark, she had to give in and betroth her firstborn and only daughter, her dear baby girl.

Not everything was disadvantageous, since having her younger half-brother married to her daughter would bind and commit the greens to seeing her as the future queen.

Or so they all briefly thought, until the King's death.

"The rift in our family will heal, and we will be more united." This was what Viserys the Peaceful said, with difficulty, as he received Rhaenyra and Daemon, and all their progeny, at court for the first time in six years.

The wedding was held that same afternoon, privately. Only the closest to the king attended the ceremony. His children, his wife, his grandchildren, his nieces, the Hand, and Princess Rhaenys. Shortly after, he succumbed to pain, having to be taken to his quarters where he drank milk of the poppy to be able to sleep.

The Hightowers thought this would benefit their discussion about Driftmark's inheritance the next day. Without the king present, they could declare Vaemond Velaryon as heir to his brother, the Sea Snake, who was still hovering between life and death. And, in a way, they could more freely insinuate the illegitimacy of Rhaenyra's elder children. Killing two birds with one stone.

"Now you are a recognized Targaryen, despite your illegitimate descent, wife." These were the first venomous words Aemond addressed to his now wife for the first time in years. "I will make sure you do not follow your mother's path, that the children you carry in your womb are mine, and no one else's." He murmured, while caressing his wife's dark hair, a certain warmth and delicacy in the act.

"I would never think of it, my prince." She whispered, carefully watching his movements as he circled her.

As if she were his prey.

"Do you know what comes next? What is expected of you on our wedding night?" He asked, tilting his head, once he stood in front of her.

"To consummate our union, to give you an heir."

"Hm." He hummed. "I will not be harsh with you, I will be gentle. Until you ask me not to be."

There was no love between them, not even the slightest hint of the friendship that once existed in their childhood. She would be lying if she said he did not keep his word. He was not rough or harsh with her, but considerate and gentle. The union brought something she did not expect, pleasure.

She felt a lot of pleasure; he gave her pleasure. She supposed it was to keep her satisfied, so she wouldn't seek comfort in another man's arms, thus avoiding the possibility and shame of bastards.

Bastards of a bastard, it sounded ironic.

Once he finished inside her, after making her climax three times, he caressed her face, looking attentively at how her face reflected pleasure and satisfaction. Then he got off her, dressed, and left her alone in her room, without a word.

A few days later, her mother, her brothers, Daemon, and her stepsisters had to return to Dragonstone, leaving her in that place infested with snakes and traitors — without knowing what was to come.

Her grandfather died that very night, and the next day, not even a full day later, they crowned Aegon as king in the Dragonpit, in front of the entire people. Placing the conqueror's crown on his head, wielding his sword to the cheers of the people.

She could only bite her tongue and dig her nails into her skin until she bled, while averting her gaze. Not recognizing her uncle, the usurper, as king.

That night, when her husband visited her chambers to have sex with her again, as expected of him, as had been the case every night since they married, it was she who took control. It was she who set the pace and used him, leaving behind the gentleness he had previously offered her. It was she who began to be harsh.

Their encounters became rough and hard, with no room for frills or romance. After all, that was the only way she had to vent.

They did it, finished, and each went their separate ways.

In less than a month she was already pregnant.

"Blessed be the gods for this good news." Was what Alicent Hightower said upon receiving the news, while taking the hands of her young daughter-in-law. "Viserys would be delighted with this news. Finally, the Seven smile upon us."

"Do you think? I think they mock us." She whispered, tears in her eyes.

She wanted to go home, to find comfort in her mother's arms, who should be the queen of the Seven Kingdoms and sitting on the Iron Throne.

From the day they received the news, Aemond stopped visiting her at night, and she spent hours staring at her bed canopy, caressing her still nonexistent baby bump. The life growing inside her was the only thing she had in that cold place.

How she longed to talk to her mother freely, but of course, writing to her and sending a raven at that time, without supervision, without practically the entire king's small council approving it, could be considered treason. And to think of proposing to visit her, by the Seven Gods.

What a fucking mess.

Days went by, her loneliness grew, her breasts became more sensitive, her aversion to certain smells became more noticeable. Still, the only pleasant company she had and found some comfort in was Helaena and her children.

Beings of light, innocent and joyful.

"How are things with my brother?" Helaena asked while observing the cages in which she kept some insects.

"He usually asks about how I am feeling, how the pregnancy is going — but other than that, we do not... interact. We practically live separate lives."

"Does he not discuss his duties with you?"

"The bare minimum. I only know that today he is leaving for Storm's End, to speak with Borros Baratheon."

"Oh." Helaena said, looking at her with an expression she couldn't decipher.

"What is it?"

"It is just that I feel a storm is coming. I do not know, it is strange."

"But the skies are clear, Hel?"

And the storm came, just as Helaena had said.

The next morning she woke up later than usual, none of the maids who usually attended to her came to wake her, which made her wonder why no one had disturbed her until then. She tried to dismiss the thought, leaning towards the belief that they were simply letting her rest due to the lack of energy she felt because of the pregnancy.

When she left her room to meet Helaena and have breakfast with her, she encountered one of the Kingsguard, Ser Arryk Cargyll, who had been patiently waiting for her, for who knows how long.

"Did Helaena send you for me?" The young princess asked doubtfully, as it was usually not Ser Arryk who escorted her anywhere.

"No, princess." Replied the sworn knight softly. "The queen mother sends me; she is waiting for you to meet her and Prince Aemond in her apartments." He said, pointing out the path they were to take, a fleeting, small, empathetic smile adorning his face as if he were trying to hide something.

"Has something happened, Ser Arryk?" She asked as they walked towards Alicent Hightower's apartments. Uncertainty gripped her, for each time they encountered someone from the court, or a servant or guard, they averted their gaze from the young woman, as if not wanting to reveal something. "Have I been accused of treason or something?" The young woman murmured with a mix of doubt and jest, stopping and looking at the Cargyll twin.

"Not at all, princess." The man replied, shaking his head. "The reason for the audience will be revealed when we arrive, I promise."

"Has someone died, by any chance?" The young woman asked, the question hanging in the air.

Ser Arryk did not respond, simply escorting her to the queen mother's chambers. Where, indeed, she discovered that someone had died.

Her baby brother, Luke. At the hands of her own husband, ironically.

With one hand over her mouth and the other over her stomach, she shook her head, under the watchful eyes of Aemond, Alicent, Otto, Aegon, and Ser Criston. She leaned against the brick wall of the queen's chambers, her gaze passing over each of the people present, her tears welling up in her eyes, and the words unable to pass her throat, where she felt a tight knot.

Alicent tried to approach her, raising a hand to touch her shoulder in consolation. "Oh, sweet girl, this was—" she tried to speak, as she finished approaching her.

The young woman, with a slap, pushed her hand away and took a few steps back to distance herself. Now, with tears streaming down her cheeks, blurring her vision, she clumsily opened the door and briskly set off towards anywhere far from any of them.

Without a fixed direction, she turned every corner she encountered until an overwhelming urge to vomit flooded her, and she ended up clutching a large decorative urn, where she emptied her stomach. Amidst the vomiting and retching, she felt a hand rubbing her back in support.

“No, no—” she tried to speak as she pulled away from the person, slightly dragging herself on the ground, wiping her lips with the sleeve of her dress. “No, please,” she whispered through tears, her eyes closed.

“I do not like feeling sick either.”

“What— Jaehaerys…” she whispered the boy’s name, who brought his little hand to her face and wiped away a tear.

“Does your tummy hurt, Auntie?” asked the little boy, who was kneeling beside her, his head tilted and looking at her with concern. Innocence was all that reflected in the eyes of the usurper's progeny.

“A little, yes. Something did not sit well with me, little one.” The young woman sniffed and tried to smile at the boy as best she could.

“Jaehaerys.” Helaena called to her young son, and seeing how he tried to comfort the princess, she approached them, kneeling in front of the duo. “Why don’t you go play with your sister, hm? I shall stay and take care of her, yes?”

The silver-haired boy looked at his mother and then at his aunt, who was still giving him a small smile, even though her lower lip was trembling. He nodded and looked at the small wooden dragon he had in one of his hands before placing it in the young princess’s hand.

“You can keep it until you feel better.”

“Thank you, little prince.”

“Maybe playing with it will help you.” He murmured before standing up and running towards one of the servants who took care of Helaena’s children.

The usurper’s wife, whom she had adored since childhood, helped her up from the ground, and with an arm around her, while she cried silently, accompanied her to her room, where she broke into almost agonising, pain-filled sobs. Helaena sat at the foot of the young woman’s bed while she cried with her head in her lap, broken with grief.

For hours, the one considered the new queen, with a pure heart and only good intentions, stayed in the same position, doing everything in her power to calm and console her dear one, who was her sister-in-law, niece, and friend, all in one person. She stroked her long hair while trying to offer comforting words; the young Velaryon, slightly younger than her, could only cling to her waist with one arm, while in the other hand she held the wooden dragon that little Jaehaerys had given her. She kept her face hidden in Helaena’s lap, crying and crying, until finally, she fell asleep from crying and sobbing so much.

“Leave. Have you not made her suffer enough?” she thought she heard Helaena say sharply, something that very rarely happened, in the distance of her dream.

She knew that the one who was now definitely her only trusted person in the place had just thrown out her husband, the murderer of her younger brother.

Aemond did not manage to articulate a word to excuse himself when he showed up, merely mumbling under his breath, his gaze fixed on his beautiful wife, clinging to the body of his sister.

Helaena gave him a fierce, defiant look, insisting without repeating her words that he leave, which he eventually did. The slam of the door behind him woke the princess, who turned her head and stared at the door.

“Do not worry, he is gone now,” murmured Helaena, looking at her with sadness and empathy, still stroking her hair.

“I do not know what I am going to do,” whispered the young Velaryon, her voice hoarse from crying so much, as she lowered her hand to her belly, where her baby was growing.

That creature, who was also the progeny of a Kinslayer, the prince with one eye. The person she could most despise at that precise moment.

The mere thought of being responsible for giving him a child, something that was already happening, made her blood boil and filled her with deep disgust for the situation.

And indirectly, a certain rejection, towards her unborn child.

She was condemned to spend the rest of her days with him, bound to him, because of her condition. Because of the son or daughter who had not yet been born, but soon would be.

She was in that position by the decision of Viserys, her late and naïve grandfather. “By order of the king…” she murmured sarcastically, as she felt the tears well up in her eyes again.

By order of the late king, she was in that situation, but that would not stop her from making things difficult for Aemond.

A shadow began to loom over her, just as the war that was about to be declared.

Although, to be honest, they were all screwed.

So royally fucked.

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10underoot2 · 8 months ago

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I thought I would have so much to say about the car accident scene. And while I could go on for a while on why it's everything I've ever wanted from a scene of this nature and why it's a beautifully acted cinematic piece, I do think the beauty of the scene lies so much in silence. Their expressions are do a fantastic job to express their emotional state so I'm just gonna call attention to a few things I won't get over anytime soon.

Imagine being Haein and seeing your husband wrecking a car window in hysteria. Imagine seeing disbelief on his face when he sees you and walks towards you. Imagine watching him unable to breathe properly (sound on and high for this scene). Imagine seeing life flood into him as soon as you touch him.

Jiwon plays such an important part here. Because Haein has NEVER seen Hyunwoo like this. He's a pretty calm nice, non-violent guy. She knows him to like mostly everyone and he rarely gets angry - he's pretty composed. But then what is this look of complete shattered pain on his face? With a mix of disbelief, bearing the heaviest heart on the planet? He's unrecognisable to her. She can't make sense of any of his actions. She's in utter shock hearing how hardly any air is making it's way into his lungs.

In his eyes is a look of crazed wilderness just tamed. He's out of his sense. Completely lost in the events that have just passed. Not believing that he can breathe. That it's okay. All is well in the world for now. She's unscathed.

'What's going on? Calm down.'

The way she asks him to calm down - touching his face - cause she just doesn't know what in the world could send him in such a frenzy to forget himself. Her asking him to calm down here is everything to me. She's really just saying I'm here okay. Calm down. Calm down, you can breathe. Tell me what happened and I can fix it.

'Even still, Are you crazy? How could you break the window with your bare hands? Look at this!'

I know it probably didn't register to him at that point. But he's hearing her being worried for him again when he thought her lost forever. Wouldn't that sound like music to his ears.

And her...god she's so worried for him. She's never seen him like this. She doesn't know what happened to make him like this. One she sees his absolutely broken bloody hand. Two she's seeing her husband absolutely crushed. She's so confused.

That is until his words hit her like a truck. I think she had an idea that he did it to save her but she didn't know he did it because he thought her dead. And that makes all the difference for her.

Also I thought it was very interesting to keep showing his injured hand clenching. I think it was a way to show how the physical pain still didn't hold a candle to his emotional turmoil. He CLENCHES that broken hand multiple times. I can't even begin to think when he actively registered the pain.

The need for constant touch to reaffirm that she indeed is there. The sitting down. The head on her hand. The heavy breathing. *Chef's kiss*

I love women comforting the man they love when he's broken. Gah! That hand on his face and hug. Her embracing him. Letting him cry all he wants. Giving him the reaffirmation he needs by placing her self as close to him as possible. Trying to tame and override his sense. The hand on the nape of his neck. The hand caressing his hair lovingly. And good god, the RINGS.

Also notice his breathing on her shoulder. He's trying to calm himself. Telling himself she's here. Hearing her say it's alright. Everything will be alright.

I'm sure they stay like this until the ambulance comes and asks them if they're hurt. Only then Haein must've gently tore him apart from her (hand on his face again ofcourse) and convinced/guided him to finally get treatment. I can just Imagine Hyunwoo completely dishevelled going, 'Huh *sniffs*......oh.......Right, my hand' and that's when the pain hits him.

Special mention to the hospital conversation when Haein asks him 'Will you sob like this if I die?' and he says truthfully, bashfully, embarrassed but without missing a beat 'Ofcourse.' He's hiding behind nothing. He truly meant to give up on himself after her.

For me this is also the night Haein starts to write her diary. Hyunwoo must've been sound asleep, amped up on painkillers and she must've had so much time to sit and admire him and write.

Gif credits: @wolha and @seawherethesunsets

#he cries like such a child and its heart aching #I love/hate how I didn't think I'd write much but thsi post is still so long #this scene satisfies the angsty writer in me #it's beautifully done #such gems acting!#there are no gifs of Haein fussing over him #which is sad #queen of tears #baek hyun woo #hong hae in #kim soo hyun #kim ji won #baekhong

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levisjinchuriki · 4 days ago

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truly, madly, deeply

summary: toji didn't realize what he lost until he did

warning: angst, crying, toji pleading his case, yelling, mentions of toxic relationship

part 1

toji rests until late morning. you don’t disturb him, knowing he needs the sleep after the storm he weathered last night. while he’s out, you sneak into the room to set a glass of water and painkillers on the nightstand for his inevitable migraine. it's not much, but it’s something.

you linger in the doorway for a moment after, watching him. in his sleep, toji looks so different. the sharp edges of his features are softer now. the furrow in his brow from last night is gone, replaced by a peace that’s rare. it pains you to watch him this way, knowing that the man lying before you carries so much anguish.

when he finally wakes, you hear the creak of the mattress and quiet shuffle of his feet before he appears in the living room, drawn by the smell of you making breakfast. he lingers in the doorway at first, then steps further into the kitchen, his footsteps slow and tentative.

you don’t say anything, keeping your focus on plating the food. you know he’s watching you, debating what to say—or if he should say anything at all.

you plate the meals, just like you always used to, and set his on the counter. still, you don’t make eye contact. it’s not intentional, just the natural result of a mind weighed down with too many thoughts. but toji’s eyes are on you, steady and unrelenting, following your every movement.

should he thank you for last night? apologize for the mess he dragged into your home? ask how you slept, even though he knows the answer? none of it feels right, and the words remain lodged in his throat.

instead, what comes out is something entirely different.

“can you stop?”. his tone is sharp but not angry—tired, maybe. it’s enough to make you pause, your hands hovering over the dish towel on the counter. slowly, you look up, meeting his gaze for the first time.

“stop what?” you ask puzzled. you’re not trying to frustrate him. you’re not entirely sure what you’re doing.

"acting like everything is normal. it's driving me crazy" toji says, his tone edged with frustration. it’s not really what he wants to say. he’s never been good at expressing himself, not in the way you need him to be.

you notice the turmoil flickering behind his eyes. his words only skim the surface of what’s really going on beneath. there’s so much pain there, unspoken and unresolved, that even he doesn’t seem to know what to do with it.

"i don’t like seeing you like this" you admit softly. it’s an honest confession, one you’ve been holding back for longer than you care to admit. your words catch him off guard, and he visibly flinches, his tough exterior momentarily cracking. for a second, he looks like he’s about to say something vulnerable, but just as quickly, he recovers, masking his emotions with sharp words.

"yeah, well, whose fault is that?" he bites out, his tone harsher than he intends. the second the words leave his mouth, regret flashes across his face.

he knows it’s his fault. it’s always been his fault. every hardship, every heartbreak, every sleepless night you endured in this relationship has been caused by his actions, his choices. and yet, he still lashes out, deflecting because it’s easier than facing his guilt head-on.

you draw in a breath, steadying yourself against the sting of his words. "that’s not fair" you say quietly. it’s not. he knows it’s not.

toji’s gaze drops to the floor, his jaw tightening as the truth of your words settles over him. the blame shouldn’t be on you for leaving him. if anything, he’s lucky you stayed as long as you did, long past the point when most people would have walked away.

in hindsight, he doesn’t even know why you didn’t leave sooner. you deserve so much more than he ever gave you.

"how many times has this happened before last night?" you ask carefully, afraid of pushing him too far.

toji’s shoulders sag under the weight of your question. embarrassment flickers across his face, and you can see the truth in the way his jaw tightens. he’s lost count. he doesn’t want to say it, but you already know. his bad habits weren’t new, and they’ve worsened since the separation.

"why does it matter?" he mutters, his tone defensive but laced with shame.

you hesitate, your heart heavy with the truth you’ve been keeping to yourself. it feels too big to say, too tangled with all the unresolved emotions swirling between you. but he’s looking at you now, his eyes searching yours, and you know he deserves an answer.

"because i care about you" you say.

for a moment, his expression softens, the harsh lines of his face easing as your words sink in. he doesn’t say anything, but you can see the conflict playing out in his eyes.

just because you’re not together anymore doesn’t mean you’ve stopped caring. it doesn’t mean you’ve stopped worrying about him. it doesn’t mean you want to see him drink himself into an early grave. and it doesn’t mean you’ve stopped loving him. that part, you don’t say, but it lingers in the air between you, unspoken but undeniably there.

you half-expect him to make a flippant comment, a typical toji move to deflect from his feelings. but instead, his jaw tightens, and he shakes his head. there’s a twitch in his nose—a tell you’ve come to recognize, the small sign that he’s fighting back emotions he doesn’t want to show.

“don’t do that” he warns. you can hear the strain in his voice, like he's on the edge of something he doesn’t know how to handle. he’s so far from the image of the hard, untouchable man he’s always pretended to be. instead, he looks fragile—struggling, hurting, desperately trying to hold himself together while everything inside him feels like it’s breaking.

toji sniffles, his hand coming up to rub over his face, as if he can scrub away the emotion threatening to surface. the sight of it tugs at your heart in ways you can’t control.

“why did you call me last night?” you ask quietly, your voice careful.

he looks at you then, and for a second, your resolve nearly crumbles. his gaze is so broken, so full of regret. the deep sigh he lets out seems to drain what little fight he has left.

“because no matter how hard i try, i can’t get you out of my damn head” he says.

your heart hammers in your chest. you open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat.

“i know i don’t have the right to call you anymore” he continues bitterly—mostly at himself, at the situation, at everything. “but i just—i needed to hear your voice”.

there it is. the truth hurts to hear. despite everything that’s happened, despite the space and pain between you, he still turned to you. when he had no one else, when he was at his lowest, it was you he called. that has to mean something—doesn’t it?

you blink, your chest tightening as you watch him struggle to keep his composure. toji— tough, unshakable toji—looks like he’s barely holding it together.

“i don’t know how to stop” he admits after another long moment of silence, his voice breaking just enough to make you flinch. “thinking about you. missing you”. his hands hang at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching as if he’s fighting some invisible force. “i screwed it all up. i know that. but you—”. he looks at you then, his gaze so intense it feels like it might break you. “you’re still the only thing that makes sense to me. even now”.

his words sting, but you can see the pain in his eyes—the regret that’s etched so deeply into his features as if it’s become a part of him. he doesn’t move closer, doesn’t reach for you, even though you can tell he wants to.

you’re not even sure what you want to say. that he’s wrong? that he’s right? that you’ve been struggling too?

your heart twists painfully at his words. you want to be angry. you want to tell him that he doesn’t get to just show up like this, throwing his pain at your feet. but you can’t. because deep down, you know that anger isn’t what you feel.

“do you think that makes it any easier for me?” you ask, your voice trembling. “watching you like this? knowing you’re hurting?”. your eyes fill with tears as you stare into his.

“we ended things for a reason. for a lot of reasons.” your voice wavers as a thousand emotions swirl inside you. his eyes squeeze shut, and he nods, like he’s bracing himself for the final blow. but when he looks at you again, there’s a desperation there you’ve never seen before.

“i know” he says hoarsely. “and you were right to leave. i know i screwed everything up. i know i don’t deserve this—don’t deserve you—but…” he trails off, his voice cracking. “i’ve never felt like this before. not with anyone else. not even close. and i can’t… i don’t want anyone else”.

you want to believe him. you want to believe that he’s changed, that this time will be different, that he won’t let you down again. but you’ve heard promises before.

“i can’t trust you” you say, the words trembling as they leave your lips, tears slipping freely down your cheeks. even though you’re the one who left, it feels like you’re breaking up all over again, reopening wounds you thought had begun to heal.

“i know i don’t deserve another chance. but i mean it this time. i swear i do”. his voice cracks, and it’s enough to make your chest ache.

his words sound genuine, the emotion in his voice undeniable, but how can you trust that? he’s hurt you before, made promises before. still, the way he looks at you now—like you’re the only thing holding him together—makes you hesitate.

“i still love you” he adds, the confession spilling out like it’s been tearing him apart. his gaze locks onto yours, desperate and searching for something—anything—that might give him hope.

you look away, wiping at your tears with trembling fingers. you're torn, trapped between the part of you that aches to believe him—the part that longs for the warmth of the love you once shared—and the part that knows better, the one that remembers the cold, sharp edges of his neglect.

you think of the moments of love and laughter—his low chuckle in your ear, the way he’d pull you into his chest and kiss the top of your head, the rare but precious mornings where the world seemed to stop, just the two of you tangled together in the quiet.

but those memories are eclipsed by others, darker and heavier. broken promises whispered in the aftermath of fights that left you raw, the sting of his absence when you needed him most, the hollow ache of lying awake in bed while he chased after his own demons, leaving you to face yours alone.

it hurts too much.

“i think you should go” you tremble.

toji freezes. for a moment, he looks like he might argue, his mouth opening slightly as if the words are on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out and plead his case. but they never come. instead, his shoulders sag, the fight draining out of him as your words sink in.

he runs a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling as they rake over the strands. his eyes—those same eyes that once held so much confidence, so much fire—are now clouded with regret.

“okay” he says softly, his voice almost a whisper, as if saying it any louder might shatter what little composure he has left.

he doesn’t move right away. instead, he lingers, his gaze locked on you, searching your face as if trying to memorize every detail, to hold onto this moment even as it slips through his fingers. there’s a quiet desperation in his eyes, a silent plea for you to take it back, to tell him to stay.

but you don’t.

you stand there, frozen, watching as he takes a shaky breath and finally turns toward the door. his movements are slow, reluctant, like every step is an admission of defeat.

when he reaches the door, he hesitates, his hand resting on the handle. for a second, you think he might say something, one last attempt to change your mind. but he doesn’t. he opens the door, stepping out without looking back.

and just like that, he’s gone.

you press your hand to your chest, the ache there unbearable, and you sink onto the couch, tears streaming freely now.

your mind races, his words replaying over and over. i mean it this time. i still love you. i’m sorry. what if he really does mean it? what if he’s changed? what if this time, things could be different?

but then the other voice—the one that remembers the hurt, the loneliness, the promises that were always broken—creeps in. what if he hasn’t? what if it’s the same cycle all over again?

the tears keep coming, and you let them. the ache in your chest feels unbearable, a mix of anger, love, and regret twisting into something you can’t untangle.

you want to believe him. god, you want to believe him. but trust is fragile, and yours has been shattered too many times.

you picture toji on the other side of that door, his shoulders slumped, his face etched with the pain of rejection. you know what he’s feeling because you feel it too—a deep, gnawing emptiness that no amount of reasoning can fill.

but you also know the truth.

this is the path you chose because it’s the one that hurts less in the long run. toji has to accept that he’s lost the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and you have to accept that some things, no matter how much you want them to, can’t be fixed.

memories of the life you once shared flash through your mind—the laughter that came so easily in the beginning, the quiet nights when words weren’t needed, just the steady rhythm of his breathing as he held you close.

but then comes the other memories… the arguments that seemed to come out of nowhere, his voice raised, yours breaking. the promises that felt like lifelines at the time but were discarded so casually. the nights you spent staring at the ceiling, the bed cold and empty, wondering why you weren’t enough.

it’s not fair.

you were never the problem.

you clench your fists, your nails digging into your palms as you fight back the surge of anger and grief that threatens to overwhelm you. how many times did you tell yourself that love would be enough? that if you just tried harder, gave more of yourself, things would change? how many times did you accept his apologies, his promises to do better, only to be left in the same cycle of disappointment?

still, the tiny flicker of hope refuses to die. it lingers, stubborn and persistent, whispering what if in the back of your mind. what if this time is different? what if he really means it? what if the love you both still feel is enough to mend what’s been broken?

you hate that hope.

it feels like a betrayal of all the pain you’ve endured, a cruel trick your heart plays to keep you tethered to someone you know isn’t good for you. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to let it go completely.

the weight of your decision feels suffocating, but you remind yourself that trust is a fragile thing. once broken, it’s nearly impossible to piece back together.

toji has to learn to live with what he’s lost. he has to understand that love isn’t enough without trust, without effort, without change.

your tears have stopped, but the ache in your chest remains, a dull and constant reminder of what you’ve let go.

you hope toji will find a way to heal, to become the man he claims he wants to be. but more than that, you hope you can find the strength to move forward, to leave the pieces of your shattered trust behind and rebuild yourself into someone whole again.

because no matter how much you still love him, you can’t keep breaking your own heart in the hope that one day, he’ll stop breaking it for you.

---

taglist: @lavenderdaydream97 @smaranshakthi

thank you for reading my mini series!! i haven't made an angst fic in a long time and as much as i wanted to have them be together in the end, it felt forced. don't be mad! <3

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kiwriteswords · 17 days ago

Text

It's a Wonderful Life

“You’ve really had a wonderful life; don’t you see what a mistake it would be to throw it all away?” It’s a Wonderful Life, 1946.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader||Word Count: 16k

Tags/Warnings: canon-typical themes, angst, fluff, implied age-gap, Christmas, fade to black smut, mentions of Spencer and Sean's addiction, alluding to depression, hurt/comfort, proposal, happy ending, parallels to the movie It's a Wonderful Life (1946).

Sypnosis: Aaron Hotchner is given a profound glimpse into two alternate realities: one of love, family, and warmth with you by his side, and another of cold emptiness without you—forcing him to confront what truly makes life worth living and to fight for the future he never thought he could have.

The cold December air nipped at Aaron Hotchner’s face as he drove home in silence, his mind tangled in a storm of emotions. The Christmas lights twinkling from houses along the way blurred in his vision, unacknowledged. His hands gripped the steering wheel, tighter than they needed to be, the faint tremble in them betraying the turmoil he rarely allowed himself to feel.

It had started with a conversation over dinner, but it had ended in the first real fight the two of you had ever had.

Hotch leaned back in his chair earlier that evening; his suit jacket hung neatly over the back. You had joined him in the small nook of his office, where the two of you often had late-night dinners during busy weeks. The meal was simple, but it was warm and comforting, much like your presence had been since the moment you entered his life.

"I was offered a new position today," you had started, your voice tentative yet steady.

That alone had caught his attention. He set his fork down, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity. "What kind of position?"

Your hands toyed with the edge of your napkin, betraying the nerves you were trying to suppress. "It's more administrative. I'd stay with the Bureau, but it’s a stable office job—better hours, better pay."

He froze. "You’d leave the BAU?"

The words came out sharper than he intended. His voice edged with disbelief and something deeper—something darker. The possibility of you leaving felt like the ground shifting beneath him and his control over the situation slipping through his fingers.

Your expression tightened, and you met his eyes with quiet resolve. "I’ve been thinking about the future, Aaron," you replied softly.

The future. The word hung in the air like a challenge, forcing him to confront the pieces of himself he kept buried. He leaned forward, his posture tense. "The future? This has always been your dream. You worked harder than anyone to get here. You’re one of the best agents I’ve ever seen—"

"I know." You cut him off gently, but your voice cracked. "And I’ve loved every second of it. But…"

"But what?"

You drew in a deep breath, the kind that signaled you were about to say something that might break you both. "I want a family, Aaron. I want marriage, a home, children. And with this job—our job—I don’t see how that’s possible. Time isn’t slowing down. I can’t keep pretending I don’t want those things."

His frown deepened, and an old, familiar fear crept into the back of his mind. He was losing control of the conversation—of the life he’d carefully pieced together after everything had fallen apart.

"We’re happy now, aren’t we?" he asked, his voice low but tinged with desperation. "What we have works."

You stared at him, hurt flickering across your face. "Maybe it works for you. But I can’t put my life on hold forever, hoping you’ll decide you’re ready for more."

The words struck him like a blow. He could see the pain in your expression, but all he could feel was confusion—and fear. His mind raced, spiraling into the memories he tried to avoid: Haley’s voice, full of hope and love, as she’d begged him to leave the BAU. Her laughter, distant now, overshadowed by the gunshot that had stolen her from him. The hollow ache of watching Jack’s childhood unfold in glimpses, between cases and fleeting moments of normalcy.

"Marriage? Kids?" he asked, his voice growing strained. "You know what happened last time. You’ve seen what this job does to families."

"And I know you’ve never let yourself believe that it could be different," you said, your voice rising slightly though it remained gentle, imploring. "I’ve been patient, Aaron. I’ve waited because I know how much you’ve been through, but I need to know if you see a future with me that includes those things. Because I do. I love you, and I love Jack, but this… this isn’t enough for me anymore."

Your confession shattered something inside him. He stood abruptly, pacing the room as he ran a hand over his face. "This isn’t just about me," he muttered. "The BAU… it’s who I am. It’s what I know."

The unspoken words clung to the air between you: It’s what I’m good at. The only thing I’m good at.

"And what am I to you?" you asked, your voice breaking now, laced with a pain that cut deeper than he could bear.

He stopped in his tracks, staring at you. "You’re everything to me," he said, quieter now, his tone weighted with sincerity.

"Then why does it feel like I’m the one compromising everything for us?"

The silence that followed was unbearable. Hotch’s heart hammered in his chest as he tried to form a response, but the words wouldn’t come. He had spent years convincing himself that sacrifice was inevitable, that his happiness would always come second to his duty. But now, standing before you, he was forced to confront the truth: he was afraid. Afraid to hope for more. Afraid to let himself believe that he could have the life you wanted without losing it all again.

Finally, you stood. "Maybe we need some time to figure this out," you said, the sadness in your voice like a knife.

He didn’t stop you as you grabbed your coat, nor did he stop himself from walking out shortly after.

As he drove aimlessly through the city, the weight of your words bore down on him. You’re everything to me. But was it enough? Could it be enough when he couldn’t see a way forward that didn’t end in failure?

He wasn’t sure. And that terrified him more than anything.

Now, as he pulled into his driveway, the emptiness of his home struck him in a way it hadn’t in years. Jack was with Jessica tonight, and the quiet was suffocating.

Hotch sank onto the couch, staring blankly at the darkened Christmas tree in the corner of the room. He thought about you—your laughter, the way your presence filled the spaces in his life he didn’t even realize were empty until you came along. He thought about how you made him feel younger, how you reminded him there was still a world outside of the job. And yet, he thought about the BAU—the cases, the purpose, the duty he had given everything to uphold.

The weight of Haley’s memory pressed down on him, the scars of his past bleeding into the uncertainty of his future. He had chosen the job before, and it had cost him everything. Now, he was faced with a similar crossroads, and he wasn’t sure if he could make a different choice.

You wanted more—deserved more—and he wasn’t sure if he could give it to you. The fear of failing again loomed large, and the thought of bringing another child into his chaotic world felt reckless.

But the thought of losing you?

That was unbearable.

Hotch leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. He wasn’t sure how to reconcile the life he had built with the life you wanted to build together. All he knew was that the person who had softened his edges, who had reminded him of life beyond his office, was slipping away.

Hotch sat alone in the quiet of his living room, the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree casting faint reflections on the window. His hands were clasped together, resting against his chin, as his gaze drifted to the photograph of Haley on the mantle. She was smiling—bright and full of life—in a way that felt like a distant memory.

"I don’t know what to do, Haley," he said, his voice low and gravelly, barely louder than a whisper. "If you can hear me… if you’re listening, I could really use a sign right now."

He waited, his heart heavy. There was no reply, of course. No flicker of the lights, no ghostly whisper. Just silence.

He huffed a bitter laugh and leaned back, dragging a hand down his face. "I don’t even know why I’m doing this," he muttered. "Talking to the air like it’s going to fix anything."

The quiet apartment seemed to mock him. Frustration bubbled to the surface. He stood abruptly, pacing in front of the mantle. "I’m trying here, Haley. But it’s… it’s hard. She wants things I’m not sure I can give her. Marriage, kids—a life I failed at before. And I’m scared. Scared of failing her like I failed you."

His voice cracked on the last word, and he stopped, gripping the back of the couch tightly. His head bowed, the weight of everything pressing down on him.

Still, there was no answer.

"Of course," he muttered to himself. "What was I expecting? Some magical solution?"

Resigned, Hotch made his way to bed, his mind a whirlwind of unresolved thoughts. He climbed under the covers…alone, the ache of the empty space beside him sharp and unyielding.

When Hotch woke, he was immediately aware that something was… off.

The bed was softer, warmer. And the room smelled different—clean and faintly floral. His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

The room was beautiful. Cozy. The walls were painted a soft, calming color, adorned with family photos. The curtains were pulled back just enough for the morning sunlight to stream in. And beside him, nestled under the covers, was you.

Your hair was splayed out across the pillow, and your face was serene, framed by the soft glow of the light. You looked peaceful, utterly at ease, and Hotch’s breath caught in his throat.

He frowned. He hadn’t gone to bed with you—hadn’t even spoken to you since the fight.

Before Hotch could fully process what was happening, a burst of energy erupted into the room, breaking through his daze like a ray of sunlight piercing a cloudy sky.

"Daddy!"

The high-pitched, joyful voice startled him. A little girl—no older than six—bounded into the room with the kind of uninhibited enthusiasm that only a child could muster. Her curls bounced as she launched herself onto the bed, landing directly in his lap with a squeal of delight.

"Merry Christmas Eve!" she exclaimed, her bright eyes—so familiar and yet so new—peering up at him with unfiltered adoration.

Hotch froze. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at her, unable to reconcile what he was seeing. Her wide eyes mirrored his own, and her smile, so radiant and full of life, was unmistakably yours. She was a perfect blend of both of you, a living, breathing embodiment of the life he never dared to hope for.

"Daddy! It’s Christmas Eve, and you promised we’d bake cookies today!"

Her small hands tugged at his arm insistently, her excitement infectious despite the whirlwind of confusion clouding his mind.

"Daddy!" she repeated, her impatience tugging at his heart in a way that left him reeling.

Your soft, melodic laugh broke through his haze. "Give Daddy a second, sweetheart," you said, your voice warm and filled with the kind of love that always managed to center him. Propped up on one elbow, your face was still groggy with sleep, but your amusement at the scene before you was unmistakable.

Hotch’s gaze shifted to you, his heart lurching at the sight of the simple diamond ring on your finger, its match glinting on his own hand. His mind raced, trying to make sense of this impossibly vivid moment. This wasn’t his life—or at least, it hadn’t been the night before.

Yet here you were, here she was. A family.

"Daddy!" the little girl exclaimed again, her insistence pulling him back into the moment.

"I—uh, of course," he stammered, his voice unsteady as he tried to process the surreal joy of her presence.

You reached over, placing a gentle hand on her back. "Why don’t you go see if Jack is downstairs yet, and we’ll be down in a minute?"

She squealed in excitement, her tiny feet thudding against the floor as she dashed out of the room. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving a stillness in her absence that felt almost deafening.

Hotch stared after her, his heart pounding in his chest. His thoughts were a chaotic mix of amazement and disbelief. He had spent years learning to compartmentalize, to push through even the most harrowing moments with unwavering focus. But this? This left him utterly unmoored.

"You okay?" Your voice broke through the silence, soft and grounding.

Hotch turned to you, his throat dry. "Yeah," he said hoarsely, though the word felt like a lie. "I’m… fine."

You studied him with that quiet understanding that always managed to disarm him, your eyes searching his as though you could see right through to the heart of his turmoil. Before you could press further, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his movements abrupt.

"I just need a minute," he muttered, making his way to the bathroom.

Inside, he closed the door and leaned heavily against the sink, gripping its edge as though it might steady him. His reflection stared back at him, his face etched with the weariness of someone who had seen too much and felt too deeply.

Turning on the faucet, he splashed his face with cold water, the sharp chill cutting through the fog in his mind. He couldn’t shake the image of her—the little girl with her bouncing curls and infectious grin. His daughter. The thought felt foreign and overwhelming, yet undeniably right.

He had never imagined himself as a father again. After Haley, after everything, the idea had seemed impossibly distant. He knew too much about the weight a father carried in a daughter’s life—the psychology of those relationships, the influence he would have on her sense of self-worth, her view of the world. The responsibility of it loomed large, and yet…

Yet, in those few fleeting moments, he had felt something blooming inside him—something warm and tender and wholly unexpected. A fierce, overwhelming love that took root so quickly it left him breathless.

Hotch closed his eyes, his hands gripping the edge of the sink. The thought of this little girl, of being her father, filled him with a sense of wonder he hadn’t felt in years. She was so full of life, so utterly unguarded in her joy. And you—somehow, you had become the cornerstone of it all, the thread that tied this family together.

The possibility of this life—of mornings like this, of laughter and love and everything he had told himself he didn’t deserve—was almost too much to bear.

He took a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs as he straightened. This wasn’t his reality—or at least, not the one he had known. But it was real enough to feel, to touch, to hope for. And as he stepped back into the room where you waited, he found himself wanting nothing more than to hold on to it for as long as he could.

The day began in earnest after breakfast, your daughter bounding into the living room, her tiny feet thudding excitedly against the wooden floor. "Daddy, we have to finish the tree!" she declared, her enthusiasm boundless.

Hotch found himself kneeling beside her at the tree, helping her carefully hang ornaments on the lower branches. She held out a fragile glass snowflake, her small hands trembling with excitement. "Like this, Daddy?"

"Just like that," Hotch said, his voice gentler than he expected. He steadied her hands, ensuring the ornament found its place without mishap. His heart clenched with an emotion so fierce it almost overwhelmed him. He barely knew this little girl—this version of her—but he loved her as though he had always known her, as though she had always been his.

Jack entered the room, taller and older than Hotch’s mind could quite reconcile. He carried the star meant for the top of the tree, a symbol of the role he now seemed to embody—a young man on the cusp of a bright future.

In this reality, all of Hotch’s doubts and fears of how Haley’s death, his job, Jack’s childhood would affect his outcome in life had disappeared.

"Careful with the star," you called from the kitchen, a knowing smile playing on your lips as you watched Jack move with ease and confidence. The two of you had always gotten along so well, but this dynamic…this closeness was different. New.

Jack smirked. "Relax, Mom," he teased, his tone playful yet affectionate.

Hotch froze. Mom.

Jack had said it so casually, as though you had always been that to him. Hotch’s gaze flicked to you, and his chest tightened. The idea of you as a mother to Jack—offering him the kind of love, guidance, and support that Haley once had—hit him harder than he could have imagined.

Hotch stood back, his arms crossed, as he watched Jack balance on a stepstool to place the star.

"See, Dad? No big deal," Jack said, stepping down with a grin that mirrored the boy Hotch remembered but now carried the self-assuredness of a man.

The word "Dad" hit Hotch with equal force. Jack had always called him Dad, but now it felt… different. He was no longer the boy who had once clung to him for reassurance; he was a young man with dreams and a future Hotch hadn’t fully prepared himself to see.

Hotch swallowed hard as Jack turned and lifted his sister to place the final ornament. She squealed with joy, her arms wrapping around Jack’s neck as he set her back down. Hotch’s heart swelled with pride and something deeper—a realization of what this life meant for Jack.

Hotch stood with Jack on the porch, the crisp winter air biting at his skin, but he barely noticed. His hands worked mechanically, stringing lights along the railing, yet his focus was entirely on his son. Jack, taller and more self-assured than the boy he remembered, moved with an ease that struck Hotch as both familiar and achingly new.

Nearby, your daughter’s laughter rang out as she shaped clumsy snowballs, her giggles carrying over the yard like music. She was so full of life, so utterly free in her joy, and the sound of it tugged at something deep inside him.

"Jack," Hotch began, his voice low and hesitant. He wasn’t sure how to ask what he needed to know without giving himself away. "How’s school going?"

Jack paused, glancing at him with a small flicker of surprise. "Georgetown’s great, Dad," he said, his tone casual but tinged with pride. "Finals were rough, but it’s worth it. You’ve been saying since I was a kid that law school’s no walk in the park."

Hotch blinked, his throat tightening. Georgetown. Jack had done it. All the potential he had seen in his son as a boy had bloomed into reality. The weight of pride and relief settled heavily on his chest, threatening to overwhelm him.

"Mom helped with the personal statement, you know," Jack continued, adjusting a strand of lights with practiced ease. "She said it reminded her of one of your old cases."

Hotch’s hands stilled. "She did?"

Jack shrugged, his face lighting with a fond smile. "Yeah. She always gets me. You do too, of course, but… having her around has been good for both of us."

Hotch swallowed hard, his mind spinning. Mom. Jack said it so naturally, so easily, as though you had always been a part of their lives. The realization hit him with the force of a tidal wave.

Your presence, your influence—it was everywhere. In Jack’s confidence, in his steady demeanor, in the way he spoke about his future with such quiet determination. You had become part of the fabric of their lives in a way Hotch hadn’t fully appreciated until now.

"She always gets me." Jack’s words echoed in his mind, and with them came a flood of memories that felt almost like his own: you helping Jack with late-night study sessions, your hand on his shoulder as you reassured him before a big exam, the quiet way you encouraged him to dream bigger than he ever thought possible.

Hotch felt a sharp pang of shame for the doubts he’d harbored. He had spent so much of his life fearing he wouldn’t be enough for Jack, that his own failings would cast too long a shadow for his son to grow beyond. But here, in this version of reality, Jack was thriving—and it was clear that you had been an integral part of that.

"You know," Jack said, breaking the silence as he stepped back to admire their work, "she always says the same thing when I get stressed about school. ‘You’ve got this, Jack. Your dad taught you to handle anything.’" He glanced at Hotch, his expression earnest. "She believes in you a lot. So do I."

Hotch’s breath caught, the raw emotion of Jack’s words threatening to undo him. For years, he had carried the fear of failing his son, of not giving him the stability he deserved. But here, Jack was telling him—showing him—that those fears had no place in this life.

The weight of Jack’s confidence in him pressed down like a warm, grounding force. And more than that, the knowledge of your role in this, the way you had seamlessly woven yourself into their family and filled gaps he hadn’t even realized were there, left him in awe.

Hotch’s gaze drifted to the yard, where your daughter was now attempting to build a snowman, her tiny hands patting at the uneven mounds of snow. She glanced up at them and waved, her wide smile so radiant that it nearly took his breath away.

He turned back to Jack, his voice quieter now. "Having her around has been good for both of us," he echoed, the words thick with meaning.

Jack nodded, a grin tugging at his lips. "Yeah. She’s kind of the best, huh?"

Hotch let out a small, breathless laugh, his chest swelling with a combination of love, gratitude, and amazement. "She is," he agreed softly.

For the first time in years—maybe ever—Hotch let himself feel the full weight of his happiness. It was raw and visceral, a sense of completeness that filled every corner of his being. He had spent so much of his life bracing for loss, for failure, that he had almost forgotten what it felt like to simply be.

But here, on this porch, with Jack by his side and your laughter mingling with your daughter’s in the background, Hotch let himself believe in this life. He let himself marvel at the way you had become the glue holding them together, the way your love had transformed not just him but Jack, too.

Later inside, the house buzzed with quiet warmth, the kind of comfort that came from a life well-lived together. Hotch sat at the kitchen table, your daughter perched on her knees beside him as she smeared icing onto a gingerbread man. Her fingers were sticky with red and green frosting, and there were sprinkles everywhere—on the table, in her hair, and even on the floor.

"You’re doing great," Hotch said softly, his voice tinged with admiration.

She beamed up at him, her wide grin lighting up her entire face. "Thanks, Daddy!"

The word still struck him like a blow, even after hearing it several times that day. It wasn’t just the title—it was the way she said it, so full of trust and adoration, as though he had always been her safe place.

Her eyes, so much like his own, gleamed with pride as she held up the gingerbread man. "Look! He’s wearing a bow tie like Uncle Spencer!"

Hotch’s lips twitched into a rare smile, his heart aching at the love and joy this little girl brought into his life. He hadn’t gone to bed knowing her, and hadn’t prepared for the tidal wave of love and fierce protectiveness that now surged through him. The thought of her not existing in his old reality, of never hearing her laugh or seeing her mischievous grin, was unthinkable.

From across the room, you glanced over, wiping your hands on a dishtowel as you moved toward the table. "Looks like you two are making quite the mess," you teased gently, your voice warm and full of affection.

Hotch looked up, meeting your eyes. The soft smile you gave him sent an unexpected wave of emotion coursing through him. You leaned over, brushing your fingers lightly across his shoulder before pressing a kiss to the top of your daughter’s head.

"You’re going to need a bath after this," you told her, laughing softly as you ruffled her hair; it was dark like his.

"Mommy, I’m not that messy," she protested, though her giggles gave her away.

Hotch’s throat tightened. You moved through this life with such ease, your presence a calming force that seemed to anchor not only him but also Jack and your daughter. He could see the impact you had on Jack—a confidence and sense of belonging that had been missing in his early years after Haley’s death. And now, with this little girl, you had created something Hotch had never thought possible: a family that felt whole.

As you turned back toward the stove, you spoke casually over your shoulder. "The team is still planning to come by the day after Christmas. Emily was saying she’s bringing a new board game for everyone to play."

The mention of the team grounded Hotch further, the realization settling in that this life wasn’t an abandonment of his work. It wasn’t a replacement—it was an enhancement. The BAU was still intact, still part of who he was, but it wasn’t all of him anymore. He had a life here, too.

"Emily’s going to lose," Jack chimed in from the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with a mug of hot cocoa.

"She always does," you teased, grinning as you poured another cup. "And Spencer’s going to keep track of every rule she bends."

Hotch let out a quiet laugh, the first real laugh he’d felt in days. He could picture it—the team gathered around the living room, bickering over rules and strategies while your daughter insisted on being on Uncle Derek’s team because "he’s the strongest."

You crossed the room and placed a hand on Hotch’s shoulder as you set a fresh mug of cocoa in front of him. "You’re quiet," you observed, your tone soft and knowing.

He looked up at you, his eyes searching yours. He didn’t know how to put into words the storm of emotions inside him—the love he felt for you, the overwhelming awe at the life you’d built together, the sharp ache of fear at the thought of losing it all.

You seemed to sense it, your hand squeezing his shoulder gently before you kissed his temple. "You’re allowed to be happy, Aaron," you whispered, your voice so soft it was almost inaudible.

As the evening wound down, Hotch found himself alone with you in the living room. Jack had disappeared with your daughter to wrap last-minute gifts. The two of you sat side by side on the couch, the lights from the Christmas tree casting a warm glow around the room.

Looking around the house all day, the walls and surfaces filled with framed photographs. It warmed him to see a photo staring back at him of Haley--her spirit still alive in this universe. Then, beside it, a photo of his family here with Jess. How, somehow, in this reality, they seemed to make it all work.

"You make it look easy," Hotch said quietly, breaking the silence.

You tilted your head, looking at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

"All of it," he said, gesturing vaguely. "The kids, the house, the balance."

Your smile was soft but tinged with understanding. "It’s not always easy, Aaron. But it’s worth it."

He nodded, his gaze dropping to his hands. The band shone with more than just light, but meaning on his finger. He wanted to say more, to tell you how much this life meant to him, even if he wasn’t entirely sure it was real. Instead, he reached over, taking your hand in his.

You squeezed his hand gently, leaning your head against his shoulder. "You’ve always been worth it, too," you said softly, your voice full of conviction.

That evening, after you had tucked your daughter into bed, Hotch lingered in the doorway of her room, unable to pull himself away. The soft glow of a nightlight illuminated her tiny face, peaceful in sleep. She was curled up beneath a blanket decorated with snowflakes, her little hand clutching a well-loved teddy bear that looked as though it had seen countless adventures.

Hotch’s chest tightened as he watched her breathe, the steady rise and fall of her chest oddly grounding. He was overwhelmed by how much love he felt for her—a little girl who hadn’t existed in the life he remembered but now felt as though she had always been a part of him.

How could he reconcile the intensity of these emotions? Hours ago, he hadn’t even known she existed. Now, the thought of waking up to a reality where she wasn’t here left him hollow.

"You okay?"

Your voice broke through his thoughts, soft and soothing as always. He turned, finding you standing in the doorway, your expression filled with quiet concern. You looked at him the way you always did—with that gentle understanding that both disarmed and anchored him.

He nodded, though his voice came out thick and unsteady. "She’s incredible."

You smiled, stepping closer until you were beside him. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him into your warmth. "She adores you, Aaron," you said quietly. "You’re a wonderful father."

Hotch closed his eyes as your words settled over him. He wanted to believe them, wanted to hold on to the life he was seeing now, but his mind was a storm of doubt.

"I don’t feel like one," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You pulled back slightly to look at him, your expression soft but resolute. "You are," you said firmly. "You’re everything she needs. You always have been."

Hotch swallowed hard, his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He thought about Jack—how he had failed to give him the kind of stability he’d needed after Haley’s death. Jack had grown up too fast, forced to carry burdens no child should bear. But in this reality, things were different. You had been here, filling the gaps he couldn’t.

And this little girl… she had been given a life Jack never got.

"I don’t know how to do this," he said, his voice cracking. "I didn’t know how to do it with Jack, and I still don’t. What if I fail her?"

"You won’t," you said softly, your hand resting against his chest. "You’ve already given her more than you realize. You’re here, Aaron. That’s what matters."

He looked at you then, his heart aching with a mix of love and fear. You were his anchor, the person who had somehow made all of this possible. And as much as he wanted to let himself believe in this life, a small voice in the back of his mind kept whispering doubts.

"I don’t deserve this," he said finally, his voice raw.

You shook your head, stepping closer to cradle his face in your hands. "Aaron, you deserve every bit of happiness this world has to offer," you said, your voice trembling slightly. "And so does Jack, and so does she. We deserve you."

Your words hit him like a tidal wave, washing over the walls he had built to protect himself. He wanted to believe you, to believe that this life was real and that he was capable of keeping it.

As he held you tightly, he let himself imagine it—really imagine it. Waking up every morning in this house, hearing the sound of your laughter and your daughter’s giggles. Seeing Jack come home for the holidays, confident and thriving. Sharing in the messy, imperfect beauty of this life you had built together.

It was everything he hadn’t let himself hope for.

But with that hope came fear. What if it wasn’t real? What if he woke up tomorrow and it was gone?

Or worse—what if it was real, and he chose wrong?

You rested your head against his chest, your presence calming the storm inside him. "It’s okay to be scared," you murmured. "But we’ll figure it out. We always do.."

He closed his eyes, letting your words sink in. For the first time, he allowed himself to believe that this life—the one he had thought was impossible—wasn’t just a dream.

It was a choice.

And it was his to make.

Hotch tightened his arms around you, his hands instinctively finding the curve of your back, the warmth of your body grounding him in a way he hadn’t felt in years. You fit perfectly against him, as though you were made to be there. For the first time in what felt like forever, his mind wasn’t spinning with doubts or contingencies—just the steady thrum of your heartbeat against his chest and the soft rise and fall of your breath.

He let his eyes wander around the room, taking in the snapshots of the life he’d been too afraid to let himself imagine. A small, messy art project on the table in the corner. Your daughter’s drawings, taped proudly to the fridge. A framed photo of Jack, smiling wide in a Georgetown sweatshirt, arm slung around his little sister. This wasn’t just a house—it was a home, filled with love and joy and the kind of peace he’d convinced himself he didn’t deserve.

When he looked back down at you, his heart swelled with an emotion so overwhelming it almost frightened him. Your face was serene, your eyes soft as they met his, full of trust and a quiet knowing. You had always seen him—the man beneath the armor, the one who had carried so much and still kept moving forward. But now, he saw you too, in all your brilliance. The way you had carved a space for yourself in his heart and Jack’s life. The way you had somehow taken all his jagged edges and made them something beautiful.

"You amaze me," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Your lips curved into a gentle smile. "Do I?"

He nodded, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek. "Every day. In ways I don’t think I’ll ever be able to put into words."

Your hand came up to rest over his, your touch light but steady. "You don’t have to," you murmured. "I feel it."

Hotch swallowed hard, his chest tightening. He felt the words bubbling up—words he hadn’t let himself say, even in the quiet of his own mind. I don’t deserve you. But for the first time, he didn’t want to give them power. Instead, he let the overwhelming gratitude he felt take their place.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened. It wasn’t hurried or desperate but filled with purpose—an unspoken promise, an acknowledgment of everything you’d built together and everything still to come. His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer, while your fingers tangled in his hair, anchoring him to you.

When the kiss broke, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless but smiling. The room felt warmer, more alive, and he knew it wasn’t just the glow of the fireplace or the soft hum of Christmas lights.

"Come with me," you whispered, your voice like a melody, and he followed without hesitation, your hand warm in his.

The soft light of the bedroom welcomed you both, and the moment shifted, taking on a deeper intimacy. Hotch watched as you turned to face him, your gaze steady and open, your lips slightly parted. His heart pounded as though it were the first time he had ever seen you, the first time he’d ever dared to imagine this life.

"You’re incredible," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

You smiled, stepping closer, your hands finding his chest, smoothing over the fabric of his shirt before slipping beneath it. "So are you," you replied, your tone teasing but filled with sincerity.

His hands found your waist, and he let himself marvel at the way you leaned into him, so effortlessly trusting, so fully his. Slowly, gently, he guided you to the bed, his movements unhurried, savoring every second. He wanted to memorize this—to commit every look, every touch, every sigh to memory.

When you were finally lying beside him, the world outside seemed to fade away. The only thing that mattered was you—your warmth, your laughter, the way you whispered his name like it was both a promise and a prayer.

The moments that followed were a blur of soft touches and quiet gasps, of whispered words and stolen glances. It wasn’t just about the passion—though that was undeniable—it was about the connection, the unspoken understanding that this was where he was meant to be. With you.

As the night deepened, you rested against him, your fingers lazily tracing patterns on his chest. He stared at the ceiling, his mind replaying the day’s events, the stark contrast of the alternate realities he’d glimpsed.

He pressed a kiss to your hair, the scent of you filling his senses. "Thank you," he whispered.

"For what?" you asked, your voice thick with contentment.

"For this," he said simply, his hand resting over yours. "For being everything I didn’t know I needed."

You lifted your head to look at him, your smile soft but knowing. "I love you, Aaron."

He closed his eyes, letting the words wash over him, before opening them again and meeting your gaze. "I love you too," he said, his voice steady but full of emotion.

As sleep began to claim you both, Hotch let himself drift, the sound of your steady breathing lulling him. For the first time in years—maybe ever—he felt truly at peace. And for the first time, he let himself believe that this life, this love, wasn’t just a dream.

It was his reality. And he would do whatever it took to hold onto it.

Hotch woke with a start, his breath catching in his throat as he sat up abruptly. The soft warmth of the bed, the cozy house, the sound of your laughter—all of it was gone. The room was cold and dark, the bed empty--his sparsely decorated apartment feeling emptier than ever.

His head spun as he tried to reconcile the vivid life he had just experienced with the stark reality before him. Was it a dream? A vision? His heart ached with the loss of it already, the memory of your touch, your voice, your presence slipping through his fingers like sand.

The shrill ring of his phone broke the silence, and he reached for it on instinct.

"Derek?" His voice was groggy, but the name left his lips with a hope he couldn’t quite place. Maybe Derek could make some sense of this.

"Hotch," Derek’s tone was clipped, almost irritated. "You coming in or what?"

Hotch frowned, glancing at the clock. It was Christmas Eve…again, yet there was no warmth or camaraderie in Derek’s voice. "I’ll be there soon," Hotch replied, the unease in his chest growing.

He hung up and stood, pausing by Jack’s room as he passed. Pushing the door open, he found his son—a young man now, just like in the other reality—but the scene before him was starkly different.

Jack was sprawled across the bed, his room messy and cluttered with discarded clothes and fast food containers. The blinds were drawn, and the air was stale. Hotch’s chest tightened as he took it in.

"Jack?" he said softly, stepping inside.

Jack stirred but didn’t wake, his face a reflection of someone weighed down by something invisible but heavy. Hotch’s heart sank. This wasn’t the confident, thriving young man from the other reality. This Jack seemed lost, unmoored, and aimless.

The sight of him broke something in Hotch. He thought of the pride he’d felt watching Jack lift his sister to place the star on the Christmas tree, the warmth of Jack calling you "Mom." That version of his son had been supported, loved, and encouraged.

But this Jack had none of that.

Hotch arrived at the BAU with a growing sense of dread. The bullpen was unusually quiet, the festive atmosphere of the season nowhere to be found. The team sat at their desks, their expressions strained and tired.

Derek was pacing near his desk, his jaw tight. Emily and JJ were in a heated discussion across the room, their voices low but tense. Penelope’s office was empty. Rossi sat at a desk, rubbing his temples as though trying to stave off a headache. The energy was fractured, the harmony that had once defined their team completely absent.

Hotch scanned the room, his heart sinking further when he didn’t see you.

"Where’s Y/N?" he asked, his voice betraying the urgency he felt.

Derek looked at him sharply. "Y/N?" he repeated, as though the name itself was foreign. "You’re really asking that? Are you okay, man?" Derek asked, but less of a caring way and more of a what the actual fuck, way.

Hotch frowned, confused by the response. He didn’t push, instead retreating to his office.

Later, as the team gathered for an impromptu briefing, the team’s comments throughout were surprising for him to hear. The complaints of spending the holiday together weighed heavily on Hotch with guilt. It did suck when they had to spend time away from their loved ones, but usually, they toughed it out--now, it felt like an inconvenience to be together.

During a break in the briefing, Rossi, uncharacteristically frustrated, spoke up. "Hotch, any idea what Jack’s plans are? I heard he got fired from that last job."

Hotch stiffened, his jaw clenching. "He’s… figuring things out," he said curtly, though the words felt hollow even as they left his mouth.

"Like Sean, huh?" Rossi muttered under his breath, the sting of the comparison sharp and deliberate. His tone carried an edge of judgment—something uncharacteristic for Rossi and yet cuttingly clear now.

The words hit Hotch like a blow to the chest. His jaw tightened as he fought to keep his composure, but the comparison to his younger brother twisted in his gut. Rossi's words echoed the fear he had buried deep inside for years: that Jack would follow the same troubled path Sean had.

Hotch said nothing, his mind racing. Jack had always been a bright, curious boy, full of potential. But in this reality, all of that seemed to have withered away. The son he had once seen as a reflection of his hopes and dreams was now a reflection of his deepest fears.

Without you—without the love, warmth, and stability you had brought into their lives—Jack was floundering. Hotch’s mind raced with fragments of information he’d tried to ignore or rationalize: Jack had dropped out of college after struggling to keep up with coursework, citing stress and disinterest. A string of failed relationships followed, each one leaving Jack more withdrawn and disillusioned. And then there were the whispers Hotch had overheard about Jack spending nights out at bars, drinking heavily, maybe dabbling in something stronger.

The thought alone made Hotch’s stomach churn. Jack had avoided talking to him about any of it, brushing off questions or deflecting with sarcasm. The distance between them felt like a canyon, wide and impossible to bridge.

Hotch thought of Sean, of all the ways he had failed his younger brother, and the memories burned like acid. Sean’s struggles with addiction, his inability to find direction, his resentment toward Hotch for being the "golden child"—all of it had haunted him for years. And now, seeing the same patterns emerging in Jack, he felt paralyzed.

His worst nightmare was coming true.

Rossi’s voice snapped him back to the moment. "You’ve gotta do something, Aaron," he said, his frustration simmering just below the surface. "Before it’s too late."

Hotch looked at Rossi, his expression carefully blank, but inside he was panicking. What could he do? Jack wouldn’t listen to him now—he was too angry, too bitter. And in truth, Hotch couldn’t blame him. In this cold, fractured reality, he had been too consumed by work, too emotionally unavailable, too afraid of repeating his past mistakes to see how much Jack needed him.

"Thanks for the insight, Dave," Hotch said tersely, his tone dismissive. But as he turned back to the case file in front of him, his hands trembled.

He had failed his son.

The thought burrowed into his mind, heavy and unrelenting. Jack was slipping further away, and Hotch didn’t know how to reach him. His choices had created this reality, this version of their lives where Jack was lost, where he had no anchor, no role model, no sense of security. Without you, the person who had brought balance and warmth to their family, Hotch couldn’t even begin to imagine how to fix it.

Later, alone in his office, Hotch sat staring at the framed photo of Jack as a young boy—his bright smile, his mischievous eyes. He had once believed Jack’s future was limitless, that he could be anything he wanted to be. But now, that future felt precarious, teetering on the edge of a cliff.

It wasn’t just the loss of Jack’s potential that gutted him—it was the loss of connection, of trust, of love. Jack didn’t look up to him anymore. He didn’t confide in him or seek his advice. And Hotch had no one to blame but himself.

He closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair as the weight of it all pressed down on him. He had been so focused on protecting Jack from the pain of his own failures—his divorce from Haley, the trauma of losing her, the grueling demands of the BAU—that he had failed to see how his fear had driven a wedge between them.

Jack didn’t need perfection. He needed a father who was present, who cared, who listened. And in this reality, Hotch hadn’t been that father.

The sharp pang of guilt twisted in his chest as he thought of you. In the "better" reality, you had been the glue that held their family together. Your warmth and insight had softened his edges, and your unwavering belief in Jack had given the boy the confidence to thrive. But here, without you, everything had unraveled.

Hotch buried his face in his hands, his mind a chaotic swirl of guilt, regret, and desperation. How had he let it come to this? How had he become the father he had always feared he would be—the one who failed to protect his child, to guide him, to give him a sense of purpose?

The answer was painfully clear: he had pushed away the one person who could have helped him build something better. And now, without you, his life was as cold and hollow as the winter wind outside.

And Jack? Jack was paying the price.

Hotch sat in the silence of his office, the weight of his choices crushing him. He had lost you. He was losing Jack. And for the first time in years, he didn’t know if he could find a way back.

As the day dragged on, Hotch found himself alone with Spencer. The younger man’s nervous energy was a welcome distraction, but Hotch’s mind kept circling back to you.

"Spencer," Hotch said abruptly, breaking the silence. "How’s Y/N?"

Spencer froze, his eyes wide with shock. "Why are you asking about her?"

Hotch frowned, the unease in his chest growing. Spencer's voice had almost a protectiveness, cluing Hotch into the fact that he really hurt you.

"Just… curious."

Spencer hesitated before answering. "Y/N left the Bureau years ago, Hotch. After… after you two split."

Hotch’s breath hitched. "She left?"

Spencer nodded, his tone cautious, looking at Hotch a little confused. "It was bad. For both of you. She took some lower-paying office job, and last I heard, she cut contact with the team completely."

Hotch’s heart sank. He couldn’t imagine you—so full of life and passion—confined to a life that stifled you. He couldn’t imagine you not talking to Emily, Penelope, or JJ. He couldn’t imagine you blowing off your conversations with Spencer, Derek, or Rossi.

"And you," Spencer continued hesitantly, "haven’t been the same since after she left years ago. You shut everyone out. Even Jack."

Hotch stared at him, the words hitting like a physical blow. The reality he was seeing now was starkly clear. Without you, everything fell apart.

As the day wore on, Hotch couldn’t shake the ache in his chest. He thought of you constantly—the warmth of your smile, the sound of your laughter, the way you had brought balance to his life.

The case, too overwhelming to solve for the BAU, a defeat Hotch was not used to facing. By the casualness in his team members, apparently, this was the norm for the last few years. The BAU had lost all credibility. Penelope, having left the unit shortly after you, he found in the system, citing differences as her reasoning.

Throughout conversations, he learned that the job had put a major strain on JJ’s marriage. She and Will are currently separated. Rossi is weathered and aged, threatening to leave almost every day. Derek was not the pillar of strength he once was. Spencer struggled with staying sober without the stability of the team and purpose here. Emily was bitter and callous. And you…far from here.

This life—cold, strained, and broken—was unbearable. Jack resented him. The team resented him. And he resented himself.

As night fell, Hotch sat alone in his office, staring at the small, untouched Christmas tree in the corner. He thought of you and the life he could have had—the little girl with his eyes and your smile—the family he had let slip away.

Breaking from the defeated BAU, Hotch did some investigating into where you currently lived. All he could think about on the way over is that a messy day like today, the only thing he could think that would make him feel better was you.

By the time Hotch reached your apartment, the December air had turned bitterly cold, but he barely noticed. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, each one colliding with the next. The memory of Spencer’s words—of how devastated you had been after the breakup—clawed at his chest. He couldn’t fathom it, couldn’t reconcile the image of you as you had been—vibrant, loving, full of life—with the bleak picture Spencer had painted.

He hesitated at your door, his breath visible in the icy air. From outside, he could see faint light through the curtains, but no Christmas decorations adorned the windows, and no festive wreath hung on the door. It was jarringly unlike you.

For a moment, he considered leaving. But the thought of not knowing—of letting this version of reality remain unexamined—pushed him to knock.

The door opened slowly, and there you stood.

Hotch’s breath caught. You looked so different from the woman he remembered. The light in your eyes was gone, replaced by something hardened and distant. Your face was drawn, your expression wary.

Your eyes widened slightly when you saw him, but whatever flicker of emotion appeared was quickly replaced by a cold, guarded look.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, your voice sharp and brittle.

Hotch hesitated, his throat dry. "I… wanted to see you."

"Why?" you snapped, your tone cutting through him like a knife. "Haven’t you done enough?"

The words hit him hard, but he forced himself to stay calm. "I know it’s Christmas Eve, and I don’t want to disturb you. I just…" He trailed off, unsure how to explain what he was doing there when he barely understood it himself.

Your laugh was bitter, devoid of the warmth he remembered. "You’ve already ruined it, Aaron. It’s been years. Just say what you came to say and leave."

His chest tightened as he took in the room behind you. The apartment was bare, no sign of the festive spirit you used to pour into your home. The absence of it felt like a glaring void, an unspoken testament to the way your life had changed.

"Y/N…" he began softly, but you cut him off.

"Don’t," you said sharply, stepping back and crossing your arms as though physically shielding yourself from him. "After everything you said the last time we spoke, you have no right to be here."

Hotch swallowed hard, shame washing over him. "What did I say?"

Your expression darkened, pain flickering across your face. "You really don’t remember, do you?"

He shook his head, and the movement seemed to snap something in you.

"You told me I was asking too much," you said, your voice trembling with anger and hurt. "You said I was selfish for wanting a life you couldn’t give me. That I didn’t understand what it meant to love someone like you."

Hotch flinched, the weight of your words landing heavily on his chest. He could hear the pain in your voice, see it in the way your shoulders tensed and your hands clenched.

"And then you left," you continued, your voice rising. "You didn’t even give me a chance to fight for us. You just decided it was over and walked away."

Hotch opened his mouth to speak, but you weren’t finished.

"You broke me, Aaron," you said, tears welling in your eyes. "I’ve spent years trying to put myself back together, and now you show up here--on Christmas Eve, nonetheless, like none of it ever happened?"

"I didn’t mean to hurt you," he said quietly, his voice thick with regret.

"But you did!" you snapped, the tears spilling over now. "And you don’t get to come here and pretend to care now. You don’t get to ruin this for me, too."

Hotch stepped back, his heart pounding. The raw pain on your face was unbearable, and he hated himself for being the cause of it. He had always prided himself on protecting the people he cared about, but in this reality, he had done the exact opposite.

"I’m sorry," he said softly, his voice barely audible.

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. "Just go, Aaron. Please. I don’t want to see you ever again."

The finality in your voice was like a dagger to his heart, but he nodded, knowing he had no right to stay.

As he walked away, the cold biting at his skin, Hotch felt the full weight of this reality settle over him. Without you, his life was fractured, unbalanced, and cold. Jack was lost, the team was falling apart, and he was a hollow version of himself.

But worse than any of that was the knowledge that he had done this to you—that his choices had robbed you of the light and joy that had once defined you.

And as he stepped into the night, the memory of your daughter—the little girl who didn’t exist in this reality—flashed through his mind. Her laugh, her smile, the way she had looked at him with so much love and trust.

He couldn’t choose this.

He wouldn’t choose this.

Hotch returned to his dim apartment, the silence pressing against him like a suffocating shroud. The small Christmas tree in the corner stood dark and undecorated, a glaring reminder of how hollow this reality was. Here, there were no lively photos of the team, his family…even photos of Haley were gone. It was impersonal and cold. He instinctively glanced at Jack’s room, but it was empty.

"Jack?" he called, his voice echoing in the stillness. No response.

Hotch pulled out his phone, dialing his son. The line rang for an agonizingly long moment before Jack answered, his voice sharp and irritated.

"What?" Jack snapped.

Hotch inhaled deeply, trying to keep his frustration in check. "Where are you? It’s Christmas Eve, Jack."

"I’m out," Jack replied curtly.

"You’re out? It’s late, and it’s Christmas Eve. You should be home."

Jack let out a bitter laugh. "Home? What home, Dad? The one where you bark orders and don’t listen? The one where I’m just a failure in your eyes?" Jack scoffed, “You spent the last five Christmasses working anyways, all of the sudden you’re looking for me?”

"Jack," Hotch said, his voice firm, though his heart ached at the accusation. "You’re not a failure. But you need to take responsibility for your actions. I’ve been trying to help you—"

"Help me?" Jack interrupted, his tone venomous. "You’ve done nothing but push me away. You didn’t even notice when I needed you."

"Jack, listen to me—"

"No, you listen," Jack snapped. "I don’t need this right now. Just… don’t bother calling again."

The line went dead.

Hotch stood frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear as the dial tone hummed in his ear. Jack’s words stung, but what hurt more was the truth behind them. In this reality, he hadn’t been there for his son. He hadn’t given Jack the support he needed, the stability he deserved.

Hotch set the phone down slowly, his chest tight. The memory of Jack in the other reality—thriving, confident, and happy—burned in his mind. This version of his son, lost and angry, was a painful reminder of everything he had lost.

He moved to the couch, sitting heavily as his thoughts spiraled. The day had been a relentless barrage of heartbreak, from the fractured BAU to the devastating encounter with you. Now, even his relationship with Jack was slipping through his fingers.

Hotch closed his eyes and whispered, "Haley."

He hadn’t called her name in years, not like this. Not with desperation lacing his voice. "I don’t know if you can hear me," he said, his voice low and trembling. "But I need… something. A sign. Anything."

The room remained silent, the emptiness almost mocking.

Hotch exhaled shakily and rose, his body heavy with exhaustion. He climbed into bed, staring at the ceiling as the events of the day replayed in his mind. The image of your face, twisted with pain and anger, was the last thing he saw before he drifted into a restless sleep.

He woke Christmas morning to the same cold, empty apartment. For a moment, he hoped—prayed—that the nightmare of the previous day had been just that. But as he looked around, reality settled over him like a weight he couldn’t shake.

Jack’s door was still open, and the room was still empty. The small tree remained dark and lifeless.

Hotch felt panic rising in his chest. He reached for his phone again, dialing Jack. It went straight to voicemail. He tried Spencer next, but the call rang out unanswered.

The hours crawled by as Hotch moved through the day in a haze. He paced the apartment, his mind racing with thoughts of the life he had glimpsed—your laughter, the warmth of the home you had built together, the joy in your daughter’s eyes.

By mid-afternoon, he couldn’t take it anymore. He sat down on the edge of his bed, his hands trembling as he clasped them together.

"Haley," he said again, his voice breaking. "Please. I don’t know what to do."

The room felt impossibly silent, but he pressed on, his words spilling out like a dam breaking. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought… I thought I couldn’t handle it—marriage, kids, everything. But I was wrong. I was so wrong."

He dragged a hand through his hair, his chest heaving with the weight of his emotions. "I need her, Haley. She makes everything better—me, Jack, the team… she makes life better. And now she’s gone, and Jack’s gone, and everything is falling apart."

His voice cracked as he whispered, "Please let me go back. Let me make a different choice. I’ll do anything. Just… let me go back."

The tears came then, unbidden and unstoppable, as he buried his face in his hands. For years, he had carried his pain silently, locking it away where no one could see. But now, it overwhelmed him, spilling out in the form of desperate, broken pleas to a woman who could no longer answer him.

As the day wore on, the weight of the world pressed heavier on Aaron Hotchner’s shoulders. The image of you—the way your eyes had brimmed with pain when you saw him—haunted him. The memory of Jack’s angry words burned like a brand.

And through it all, he clung to one hope: that somehow, he would wake up to a chance to make it right. To choose you. To choose the life he now knew he couldn’t live without.

The knock at the door startled Hotch from his restless thoughts. He stood slowly, brushing a hand through his disheveled hair before crossing the room. When he opened the door, Jess stood there, bundled against the cold, holding a casserole dish wrapped in foil.

"Jess," he said, his voice tinged with surprise.

"Merry Christmas," she said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. She moved past him, her presence filling the otherwise empty apartment.

"You didn’t have to come," he said, watching as she set the casserole down on the counter.

She looked back at him, her expression soft but knowing. "I figured you wouldn’t have much of a Christmas meal planned."

He wanted to argue, but the truth of her statement stung too much. "Thank you," he said quietly, the words feeling hollow in the vast emptiness of his apartment.

Jess turned to him, studying his face for a long moment. "What’s wrong, Aaron?"

He hesitated, his instinct to guard his emotions kicking in. But the weight of the past day—the haunting reality of what his life had become—pressed down on him, and the words slipped out before he could stop them.

"I don’t know where I went wrong," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "I’ve been thinking about… everything. About Jack, the team, Y/N… and I just—" He stopped, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "I couldn’t let myself want it. A life with her. Marriage. More kids. I told myself it was better this way, safer. But it wasn’t."

Jess tilted her head, her eyes filled with quiet understanding. "Aaron, what makes you think you couldn’t have had those things?"

He laughed bitterly, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "Because I wasn’t enough, Jess. I couldn’t make it work with Haley. You sure as hell saw that first-hand. I couldn’t be the father Jack needed me to be. And with Y/N… I couldn’t even let myself try."

Jess’s expression softened, but there was steel beneath her empathy. "Aaron, you’re not the same man you were when you were with Haley. You’ve grown. You’ve learned. And you don’t give yourself nearly enough credit for that."

Hotch shook his head, the self-loathing bubbling to the surface. "But it wasn’t enough. Jack’s lost, the team’s falling apart, and Y/N..." His voice broke. "I hurt her, Jess. I pushed her away because I was too scared to let myself believe I could be good enough for her."

Jess stepped closer, her voice firm but gentle. "Aaron, let me ask you something. Do you remember what it was like when Y/N was around? How Jack was with her?"

He blinked, surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Jess said, her tone softening, "I’ve never seen Jack as happy as he was when Y/N was in his life. He opened up more. He smiled more. He trusted more. And you…" She paused, giving him a knowing look. "You were lighter with her, Aaron. I’ve known you for years, and even with Haley, I don’t think I ever saw you as carefree as you were with Y/N."

Hotch swallowed hard, her words stirring memories he’d tried to bury. Nights spent laughing over takeout, Jack tugging Y/N’s hand to show her his latest drawing, the quiet moments of comfort and understanding that had made his world feel less heavy.

"She brought something into your life that you didn’t even realize you needed," Jess continued. "She brought balance. Joy. And Jack? He thrived because of her. Not just because she cared about him but because she loved you. And he saw that."

Hotch looked away, his chest tightening. "I failed her, Jess. I failed both of them. I couldn’t let myself hope for something more because I was too afraid of losing it."

Jess sighed, her tone taking on a sharper edge. "Aaron, do you think Y/N didn’t know what she was getting into when she chose you? She knew your past, your fears, your baggage—and she still chose you. She didn’t need you to be perfect. She needed you to let her in."

He shook his head, his voice barely audible. "She deserved better."

"She deserved love," Jess countered, her voice steady. "And you had it to give, Aaron. You still do."

Hotch felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes but blinked them back, the weight of her words pressing down on him. "I don’t know if I can fix it," he admitted, his voice trembling. "Jack… he’s slipping away, and Y/N… I don’t even know if she’d want me back after everything I’ve done."

Jess placed a hand on his arm, grounding him. "Aaron, you’re not the man you think you are. You’re not some cold, unfeeling workaholic who’s incapable of love. You’re a man who’s been hurt, who’s been scared, but who still shows up for the people he cares about. You’ve made mistakes, sure, but that doesn’t erase the good you’ve done."

He looked at her, his expression raw. "What if I could go back? What if I could choose differently?"

Jess tilted her head, her gaze steady. "Then what would you do?"

Hotch didn’t hesitate this time. "I’d choose her. I’d choose Jack. I’d choose… all of it. The mess, the risk, the uncertainty. I’d take it all because life without it… without her… it’s unbearable."

Jess smiled faintly, her hand squeezing his arm. "Then maybe it’s not too late."

Her words hung in the air, a quiet challenge that made his chest tighten. For the first time in years, he felt a flicker of hope—a small, fragile spark that whispered of the possibility of something more.

"You’ve always had a way of making things right when it mattered most, Aaron," Jess said, her voice softer now. "And if anyone can do it again, it’s you."

As Jess turned to leave, the warmth of her presence lingering in the room, Hotch found himself holding onto that spark with everything he had. For Jack. For Y/N. For the life he’d almost let slip away.

Hotch woke with a sharp intake of breath, his heart racing as though he’d been running. The room was warm, filled with the soft light of morning creeping through the curtains. He sat up abruptly, his eyes darting around. The cold, lifeless apartment from the nightmare reality was gone.

This was his room. His reality.

He threw off the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed, barely able to contain the flood of relief coursing through him. It was Christmas Eve again—he was back.

Hotch ran a hand over his face, trying to steady himself. The vivid memories of what he had seen—Jack’s messy, unmotivated life, the disjointed team, your pain—lingered like ghosts. But so, too, did the warmth of the life he could have with you: the laughter, the home, the little girl with your smile.

He wasn’t going to waste this chance.

Hotch padded down the hall, pausing outside Jack’s room. Pushing the door open quietly, he found his son still tucked under the blankets, his face peaceful in sleep. Jack as young as he remembered leaving him before being faced with those polarizing realities.

"Jack," Hotch said softly, leaning down to ruffle his hair.

Jack stirred, blinking groggily. "Dad?"

"It’s Christmas Eve," Hotch said, his voice unusually warm and full of excitement.

Jack sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. "Already?"

Hotch chuckled. "Already." He hesitated for a moment before sitting on the edge of the bed. "Hey, I was thinking… what would you say to inviting Y/N over tonight?"

Jack’s face lit up instantly, all traces of sleep vanishing. "Really? She’s coming over?"

"If she’s free," Hotch said, his heart swelling at Jack’s enthusiasm.

Jack grinned, his excitement contagious. "I like when she’s here. She’s really nice. And funny."

Hotch’s chest tightened. The innocence in Jack’s words—the simple, childlike joy of wanting you around—was a reminder of just how much you had already become a part of their lives, even if Hotch hadn’t let himself fully realize it before.

Jack tilted his head, his expression suddenly thoughtful. "Do you think Santa can bring her presents here too?"

Hotch smiled, his heart aching with affection for his son. "I think that can be arranged."

Jack nodded, satisfied. Then, after a moment, he looked at Hotch with wide, curious eyes. "Do you think she could come over more? Like, all the time?"

The question hung in the air, and Hotch felt his pulse quicken. He hadn’t planned to bring this up—not yet—but the moment felt too perfect to let slip away.

"What would you think," Hotch began carefully, "if Y/N became… a bigger part of our family?"

Jack frowned, clearly trying to process the question. "Like… she’d come over every day?"

"Something like that," Hotch said, his voice soft.

Jack’s face brightened again, a wide smile spreading across his face. "That’d be awesome! She makes you smile more."

Hotch felt a lump rise in his throat, his son’s simple observation cutting straight to his heart. "She makes me happy," he admitted, his voice steady but full of emotion.

"Then you should tell her," Jack said confidently, his innocence making the words feel like undeniable truth.

Hotch chuckled, leaning over to kiss the top of Jack’s head. "You’re a smart kid, you know that?"

Jack grinned. "I know."

As Hotch stood, his heart felt lighter than it had in years. He wasn’t going to waste this second chance. He was going to make the call, invite you over, and start building the life he now knew he wanted more than anything.

The life he couldn’t wait to share with you.

The familiar hum of the bullpen greeted Hotch as he stepped into the BAU office, his mind steady and clear in a way it hadn’t been in a long time. The vivid memories of his nightmare reality lingered, but they had only sharpened his resolve. He wasn’t going to let this life—the people who mattered most—slip through his fingers.

The team was scattered about, their chatter softer than usual with the holidays approaching. Hotch spotted Penelope first, her bright cardigan and infectious energy standing out even amidst the quiet hum of activity. She was leaning over Spencer’s desk, gesturing animatedly as Spencer nodded, his brow furrowed in focus.

Derek was nearby, arms crossed, wearing a knowing smirk as he watched the two of them.

"Hey, boss man," Derek called out as Hotch approached. "What brings you in on Christmas Eve? Thought you’d be at home, sipping hot cocoa with Jack."

Hotch smiled faintly, something he didn’t do nearly enough. "Jack’s with Jess for the afternoon. I wanted to check in."

Penelope looked up, her face lighting up when she saw him. "You’re here! Is there a case? Please tell me there’s not a case. I swear, if you’re here to ruin Christmas, I’ll…" She paused, narrowing her eyes. "I’ll do something very un-holiday-spirited."

Hotch raised a hand, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. "No cases. I’m here to promise that we’re shutting everything down for the rest of the week. No emergencies, no files—nothing. Go home, spend time with your families, and regroup. There will always be people to save, but we can’t help them if we don’t take care of ourselves first."

The room went quiet as his words sank in. Penelope’s eyes widened, her face softening with gratitude. "Did you just… tell us to go home and take care of ourselves? Who are you, and what have you done with Aaron Hotchner?"

Spencer smiled faintly, glancing at Derek, who gave a low whistle. "Man, it’s about time. Thanks, Hotch."

Before Hotch could reply, Penelope stepped forward and hugged him tightly, catching him off guard. "I don’t know what inspired this, but I’m so grateful. Thank you, sir."

Hotch hesitated for a moment before patting her shoulder gently. "You’ve earned it, all of you."

As Penelope pulled back, Derek crossed his arms, tilting his head. "So, Hotch," he said, his tone teasing, "what’d you get Y/N for Christmas? I know you’ve got something good planned."

Hotch’s lips quirked in a rare moment of playfulness. "You’ll have to wait and see, Morgan."

Derek chuckled. "Fair enough. But if you need any tips, you know where to find me."

Hotch shook his head, amused, before glancing around. "Where is Y/N?" he asked, trying to keep his tone casual.

Spencer gestured toward Hotch’s office. "She said she’d be waiting for you in there."

Hotch’s heart skipped a beat, the thought of seeing you stirring something warm and steady within him. Without another word, he turned and headed for his office, the memories of the past days pushing him forward.

He couldn’t wait to see you, to start making things right, to build the life he knew he wanted—with you by his side.

Hotch ascended the stairs to his office with a purposeful stride, his heart pounding harder with each step. The memories of their fight haunted him, but they also fueled him. He wouldn’t waste another moment. This was his chance to make things right, to choose you, to choose them.

When he reached his office, he pushed the door open quickly, almost bursting through it in his haste.

You were standing by the couch by the window, your posture calm but reserved, a soft smile playing on your lips as you looked up at him. Too calm, he thought. He could see the quiet hurt lingering behind your gentle demeanor, the way you were preparing yourself to make sacrifices—again—for him. For them.

It was so you, and it broke his heart.

"Aaron," you began, your voice steady but careful. "I’ve been thinking about us. About everything."

He crossed the room in an instant, his determination cutting through the air. Before you could say another word, he reached you, cupping your face in his hands with a kind of tenderness that caught you off guard.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t a gentle, cautious kiss. It was deep, consuming, and filled with all the emotion he had bottled up for too long. It was an apology, a promise, a plea for you to feel everything he couldn’t quite put into words yet.

You gasped softly against his lips, surprised, but you melted into him almost immediately, your hands finding their way to his chest. When he pulled back, both of you were breathless, your wide eyes searching his for answers.

"Don’t talk," he said, his voice low and firm but so full of emotion it nearly cracked. "Please. Not yet."

You blinked, stunned into silence.

"I’m sorry," he continued, his thumb brushing gently along your cheek. "I’m so sorry for everything I said. For not seeing what was right in front of me. For not choosing you when I should have."

You opened your mouth to respond, but he shook his head slightly, stopping you.

"Tonight," he said, his voice softening, "we’ll talk. I’ll say everything I should have said before, and I’ll listen to you the way I should have. But right now, I need you to do something for me."

Your brow furrowed slightly, confusion flickering across your face. "What is it?"

Hotch’s lips quirked into a faint smile. "Go tell the director you’re taking the role."

Your eyes widened. "Aaron, I—"

"Don’t argue," he said gently but firmly. "This is what you want. And you’re not giving it up for me. Not this time."

Your hand covered his, resting on your cheek, and he felt the warmth of your skin beneath his palm. "Are you sure?" you whispered, your voice trembling slightly.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything," he said, his voice steady. "We’ll make this work. I’ll make this work. You deserve this, and I’m not going to stand in your way. Not anymore."

Tears welled in your eyes, but the smile that broke across your face was radiant. "I love you," you said softly.

Hotch leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. "I love you, too," he whispered, his voice full of quiet conviction.

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own reflecting the resolve he felt deep in his heart. "Go tell them," he said. "And then come back to me."

You nodded, your smile widening as you stood, your steps lighter than they had been in days.

As you left the office, Hotch watched you go, his chest tight with a mixture of love and determination. This was the life he wanted—the life he was going to fight for. And this time, he wouldn’t let anything get in the way.

Later, Hotch leaned against the counter in his kitchen; the phone pressed to his ear as he listened to your soft, melodic voice on the other end. It had been a whirlwind of a day, but as soon as the office had emptied out for the holidays, his thoughts had turned to you.

"Spend Christmas Eve and Day with us," he said, the words steady but laced with an unusual vulnerability. He wasn’t used to asking for things—not like this—but he wanted you there. Needed you there.

There was a pause, and he could almost hear the wheels turning in your mind. "Are you sure, Aaron? I don’t want to intrude—"

"You’re not intruding," he interrupted gently. "Jack and I want you here. I want you here."

The hesitation in your voice melted, replaced by a quiet warmth. "Okay," you said softly. "I’d love to."

As he hung up, Hotch let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. For the past few Christmases, you had always been part of the day—but always slipped out before nighttime on Christmas Eve. You had insisted on leaving early, not wanting to intrude on the traditions he and Jack had shared since Haley’s passing.

But this year, he wanted you to stay. To be part of everything.

Hotch thought back to the Christmases you’d spent together as a couple, moments that had somehow always felt brighter because of you. Whether it was the way you’d join Jack in decorating cookies—laughing as he piled on too many sprinkles—or the small, thoughtful gifts you’d slip under the tree for both of them, your presence had become the quiet heartbeat of the holiday.

He smiled faintly at the memory of last Christmas when you’d handed Jack a small, carefully wrapped package. Inside was a book he’d mentioned only once in passing during a conversation Hotch himself had almost forgotten. Jack’s face had lit up with pure joy, and Hotch had been struck by your attentiveness—not just to Jack’s words, but to the things that mattered most to him.

You didn’t just listen—you understood.

But then, as bedtime approached, you’d always reach for your coat, pressing a soft kiss to Hotch’s cheek before leaving.

"This is your time with Jack," you’d say, your smile warm but knowing. "I don’t want to take that from you."

It had been so thoughtful, so perfectly you. And every year, Hotch let you go, telling himself it was the right thing to do. But this year, everything felt different.

This year, he couldn’t imagine the night without you.

Before heading to pick Jack up from Jess’s, Hotch made a quiet but resolute decision. He took a detour, parking outside a small jewelry store adorned with festive lights. The shop was bustling with last-minute shoppers, the air thick with anticipation and cheer.

As he stepped inside, he felt an unusual sense of calm wash over him. This wasn’t a frantic, spur-of-the-moment decision. It was something he’d been carrying in his heart for far longer than he’d realized.

While waiting for the jeweler’s attention, his mind wandered to all the moments that had brought him here—not just the life they’d built together, but the stark contrast of the two alternate realities he’d seen.

He thought of the warm, bustling home from the first dream—the little girl with your smile and his eyes, Jack’s confidence and joy, the harmony of a life shared with you. That vision had awakened something in him: hope. It was everything he hadn’t let himself believe he could have but now knew he wanted more than anything.

Then, the second reality—the cold, fractured life without you—rushed back into his mind like a knife twisting in his chest. Jack had been lost, unmotivated, mirroring the mistakes Hotch had always feared for him. The BAU had been broken, and he had been a hollow version of himself, unable to connect, unable to truly live.

The thought of facing that kind of pain again was unbearable.

But it was more than that. It wasn’t just about avoiding regret or fear of what could go wrong. It was about embracing what was right in front of him—the way you fit so perfectly into his life and Jack’s, not as a replacement but as someone who made them whole in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

He thought of the first time Jack had asked if you could come to his school play, the innocent joy in his voice as he said, "It’s more fun when she’s there." He thought of the quiet nights when your hand had instinctively reached for his, grounding him when the weight of the job became too much. He thought of your laugh—the way it softened the hardest of days, the way it had a way of filling the cracks he hadn’t even known were there.

"She’s always been the one," he murmured under his breath, the realization landing softly but powerfully.

The jeweler’s voice broke through his thoughts. "How can I help you?"

Hotch met her gaze, a rare but genuine smile pulling at his lips. "I need something special," he said, his voice steady and certain. "For someone who means everything to me."

As he browsed, each piece felt like a step closer to a promise he’d been too afraid to make until now. By the time he left the store, the small box tucked securely in his pocket, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders.

This wasn’t about a grand gesture or a sudden realization—it was the culmination of everything he’d known deep down, even when he couldn’t admit it.

You were the one. For him, for Jack, for the life he wanted to build.

And this Christmas, he was ready to take the first step toward forever.

The apartment was alive in a way it had never been on Christmas Eve. The faint strains of a classic holiday tune floated through the air, mingling with the warm glow of twinkling lights from the tree. A Christmas movie played softly on the television, its cheerful narration adding to the cozy atmosphere. The scent of dinner lingered in the room, mingling with the faint pine of the tree.

Hotch sat on the couch, his gaze drifting to you and Jack, who were laughing together over something you’d said. The sound of Jack’s laughter—light, unguarded, happy—was the greatest gift Hotch could have asked for.

You caught his eye and smiled, a soft, knowing look that told him you were as content as he was in this moment. There would be time for the two of you to talk later, once Jack was off to bed, filled with anticipation for Santa’s arrival. For now, though, this was perfect.

As the evening wound down, you leaned over to grab a small, carefully wrapped package from your bag. "Jack," you said, your voice warm, "I have something for you to open tonight. I thought it might be nice to add to your Christmas Eve tradition."

Jack’s eyes lit up, his excitement palpable as he took the gift. "Really?"

"Really," you said with a grin.

Jack tore into the wrapping paper, revealing a small but beautifully crafted ornament. It was shaped like a book, gilded in silver, with his name inscribed on the cover. His eyes widened, his fingers tracing the delicate engraving.

"It’s for the tree," you explained gently. "Something just for you. I thought you might like to have your own ornament to put up every year."

Jack looked up at you, his expression a mixture of awe and appreciation. "This is… really cool," he said, his voice quiet but full of sincerity.

Then, after a moment, he added, "You always think of the best stuff. Thanks for being here. I hope you’re always here."

Hotch’s chest tightened as he watched the exchange, the simplicity of Jack’s words carrying a weight that made his throat ache.

"Thank you, Jack," you said softly, your voice trembling slightly as you smiled at him.

Jack rose, holding the ornament delicately as he approached the tree. He carefully hung it on a branch near the top, stepping back to admire his work.

Hotch’s hand moved almost unconsciously, reaching for yours. As soon as his fingers brushed against your palm, you intertwined them with a gentle squeeze.

The touch grounded him, but it also brought with it a flood of emotion. For a brief moment, he was back in that alternate reality—decorating the tree with you, an older Jack, and your daughter. He could almost hear her laughter, see her small hands reaching for ornaments as you steadied her.

The memory of that life, so vivid and so possible, filled him with a quiet, overwhelming certainty.

You glanced at him, your expression softening as you squeezed his hand again, a silent reassurance that you were here, now, and ready for whatever came next.

Hotch didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. This moment—this warmth, this love—was everything he needed to know that he was on the right path.

The night had begun to wind down, the once-bustling apartment now quieter, filled with the warm glow of twinkling lights and the soft hum of contentment. After leaving out milk and cookies for Santa, Jack had dashed to his room, his excitement bubbling over as he prepared for bed.

Hotch followed, glancing over his shoulder at you. "We’ll be out in a bit," he said gently.

You nodded with a soft smile. "Take your time," you replied, moving toward the living room to give them their privacy.

In Jack’s room, Hotch helped him settle under the covers, pulling the blankets snugly around him. The boy’s face was lit with anticipation, his cheeks slightly flushed from the excitement of the evening.

"Okay," Hotch said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "What’s the request for tonight?"

Jack grinned. "The Night Before Christmas. It has to be that one tonight, right?"

Hotch smiled, reaching for the well-worn book on Jack’s nightstand. "Good choice."

As he opened the cover, Jack’s eyes darted to the door. "Wait!"

Hotch paused, frowning slightly. "What’s wrong?"

"Can Y/N come in too?" Jack asked, his voice filled with earnestness. "I want her to hear it too."

Hotch’s chest tightened, a wave of warmth spreading through him at Jack’s request. He reached out to ruffle his son’s hair. "Of course," he said, his voice soft.

He called your name, and you peeked into the room, a questioning look on your face.

"Jack wants you to join us," Hotch explained, his tone gentle but encouraging.

Your brows lifted in surprise, but the warmth in your smile was immediate. "Are you sure?"

"Very sure," Hotch said, gesturing for you to come in.

You stepped inside hesitantly, but Jack’s enthusiastic patting of the bed beside him quickly put you at ease. You sat down, and Jack scooted closer to make room, his small hand tugging at the blanket to share with you.

Hotch’s heart swelled as he watched the two of you. You were a natural fit here, as though you’d always been part of this family.

He began to read, his deep voice steady and calm as he brought the familiar words to life.

"'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house…"

Jack listened intently, his head leaning lightly against your arm. Every so often, Hotch glanced up, catching the serene expression on your face as you followed along. Your hand rested lightly on Jack’s back, your presence grounding him in a way that felt perfectly natural.

As the story progressed, Hotch’s voice softened, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around the three of you like a warm blanket. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so at peace—so connected.

When he reached the final line, "'Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night,'" Jack let out a soft sigh of contentment.

"That was perfect," Jack murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

Hotch set the book aside, leaning down to press a kiss to Jack’s forehead. "Goodnight, buddy," he said softly.

Jack blinked up at both of you, his small hand reaching out to take yours and Hotch’s at the same time. "I’m glad you’re here," he said to you, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, your eyes glistening with emotion. "Me too, Jack."

Hotch’s chest tightened, the weight of the moment nearly overwhelming. He squeezed Jack’s hand, his gaze flicking to you. The tenderness in your eyes was everything he hadn’t let himself believe he could have, and now that it was here, he knew he would do anything to keep it.

As Jack’s eyes drifted shut, you and Hotch exchanged a quiet, knowing look, the unspoken promise between you as strong as the love filling the room.

This was family. And it was perfect.

After tucking Jack in and ensuring his dreams of Santa were safe and secure, you and Hotch returned to the quiet living room. The faint glow of the Christmas tree lights reflected off the window, casting the room in a soft, magical warmth.

You sat beside him on the couch, your presence calming and steady. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the unspoken weight of everything left unsaid lingering in the air.

Then, softly, you broke the silence. "Aaron," you said, your voice careful but earnest, "are you ready to talk? Not just about the job but… about everything."

He turned to you, his heart clenching at the concern in your eyes.

"I never wanted to pressure you," you continued, your hands folded nervously in your lap. "I don’t want you to feel like you have to make a decision just because of me. I would never want you to want something you’ll regret or resent… or not want altogether."

Hotch’s throat tightened as he listened to you. Your words were so you—selfless, thoughtful, and so in tune with his feelings that it made his chest ache.

He reached for your hands, covering them with his. "This isn’t pressure," he said, his voice firm but filled with emotion. "It’s clarity. This is everything. You’re everything."

Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, and he took a steadying breath. "I’ve been too blind to see it. Too afraid to let myself hope for more, to believe I could have this—us. But I know now."

His voice grew quieter, a tremor betraying the emotion behind his words. "I’ve seen what life could be like without you, and I can’t… I won’t go back to that. You’ve given me and Jack so much—more than I even realized until now. I can’t imagine a life without you in it."

You tilted your head, your soft smile returning. "What’s gotten into you?" you asked, your tone light but filled with love.

Hotch chuckled softly, his grip on your hands tightening slightly. "Let’s just say I had some time to think. And I’ve realized… I’ve been so afraid of failing you that I didn’t see what was right in front of me. I was scared I’d ruin this, ruin us. That I couldn’t live up to what you deserved."

Your eyes softened, and you shifted closer. "Aaron," you said, your voice steady and filled with quiet conviction, "you could never fail me. Not once. You’ve shown me more love and care than I ever thought possible. You’ve already given me so much."

Hotch’s heart swelled at your words, and for a moment, he simply looked at you, his mind flashing to the alternate reality he had glimpsed. The memory of your laughter, your daughter’s joy, Jack’s success, and the harmony of a life shared with you filled his mind.

He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the small box he had been carrying all day. When he looked at you again, his resolve was clear.

"You deserve something grand," he said softly, his voice trembling slightly. "A big moment, a big gesture. But I can’t think of a better time to start forever than right now."

Your eyes widened as he slipped from the couch to one knee, the movement fluid and filled with purpose. He opened the box, revealing the delicate, sparkling ring inside.

"Y/N," he began, his voice steady despite the emotion coursing through him, "you are the best part of my life. You’ve brought light to places I thought would stay dark forever. You’ve made me believe in love, in family, in a future I didn’t think I could have. And I don’t want to spend another day without knowing you’ll be by my side."

Tears welled in your eyes as you listened, your hand flying to your mouth.

"You’ve already shown me what it means to love someone with your whole heart," he continued. "And I want to spend the rest of my life doing the same for you. For Jack. For the life I know we can build together."

Hotch’s voice softened, the faintest crack breaking through his calm exterior. "I’m not afraid anymore, because I know now. You’re it for me, Y/N. Will you marry me?"

For a moment, you were silent, your emotions catching up with you. Then you nodded, your tears spilling over as you whispered, "Yes. Of course, yes."

Hotch let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, slipping the ring onto your finger with trembling hands. You pulled him to his feet, your arms wrapping around his neck as you kissed him, the world falling away in that moment.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, and you smiled through your tears. "I love you," you said softly.

Hotch smiled, the weight of his fears finally lifting. "I love you too," he replied, his voice filled with quiet certainty.

This was the beginning of the life he had seen in his dreams. And this time, he wasn’t letting it slip away.

The house was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the Christmas tree lights and the soft rhythm of your breathing as you rested your head against Hotch’s shoulder. Jack had been tucked in long ago, dreaming of Santa and the treasures Christmas morning would bring. But Hotch’s mind was far from sleep.

He gazed down at you, his fiancée now, the weight of the ring on your finger feeling almost as tangible as the warmth of your hand in his. He hadn’t thought it possible to feel this complete, this content. Yet here he was, in the glow of the holidays, with you beside him and the promise of forever ahead.

It was as if the universe had given him a glimpse into the consequences of his choices; in those alternate realities he’d seen, the message had been clear: the choices we make ripple outward, shaping not only our own lives but the lives of everyone we touch.

He thought of the cold, lonely life he had witnessed without you. Jack, floundering without direction. The team, fractured and disjointed. Himself, hollow and lost.

And then, the other life—the one with the warmth of a shared home, your laughter filling the rooms, Jack thriving with confidence, and the little girl with your smile and his eyes.

It was all so vivid still, a testament to what could have been—but also what could still be.

"You’re quiet," you murmured, lifting your head to look at him. Your smile was soft and understanding, as always.

Hotch shook his head, a small, rueful smile tugging at his lips. "Just thinking about how lucky I am," he said, his voice steady but full of emotion.

You tilted your head, a playful glint in your eyes. "Lucky? You did all the work tonight."

He chuckled, his arm tightening around you. "It’s more than that," he said softly. "I’ve spent so much time thinking I had to do everything alone—that I couldn’t let anyone else in because it was safer that way. But I was wrong."

You rested your hand on his chest, your touch grounding him. "You’re not alone anymore, Aaron," you said gently. "You never have to be again."

That moment he understood that his life, messy and imperfect as it was, was wonderful because of the people who shared it with him.

"I almost didn’t see it," Hotch admitted, his voice quieter now. "How much you mean to me. To Jack. How much better everything is with you in it."

Your smile softened, your hand brushing lightly against his cheek. "You’ve always had it in you," you said. "To love, to build something beautiful. You just needed time to see it."

Hotch let out a breath, his chest filling with gratitude.

No man is a failure who has love.

And he had that now—in abundance.

As the Christmas tree lights flickered softly, casting shadows across the room, Hotch leaned down to kiss you gently, his heart full in a way it hadn’t been in years.

This was his life. Messy, imperfect, but so profoundly his.

And for the first time, he truly believed that it was wonderful.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

@averyhotchner

@reidfile

@bernelflo

@lover-of-books-and-tea

@frickin-bats

@sleepysongbirdsings

@justyourusualash

#Aaron Hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfiction #kiwriteswords #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds #hotch x you #hotch x reader #hotch x y/n #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner angst

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anyamaris · 8 months ago

Text

Morning Glory

Summary-Your best friend comes over after an unexpected visit from your cheating ex, and a night of comfort produces something unexpected.

Pairing-BFF!Yeosang x F!Reader

Genre/Trope-Smut, non idol au

Word count-4.5k

Warnings-Mentions of cheating (ex), some emotions due to break up, vulgarity, adult language, unprotected sex, dirty talk, creampie, some iffy touching while you're both half asleep, NSFW 18+

A/N-This is for the Language of Flowers event for CultofDionysusnet! I hope you enjoy, I've been struggling a bit with writers block so I'm happy to put something out for this event! Make sure to check out the other entries!

Tags- @cultofdionysusnet @ksmutsociety @wooyoungmybelovedhusband @yoonguurt @shinestarhwaa @stardragongalaxy @kpop-stories-21 @starlitmark@millennial-fangirl @ericssmile @wooahaeproductions@changbinslovelylegs @yeosxxx @millennial-fangirl @starillusion13 @duchesskaren @minki-moo @woosanbby

@cafekitsune Thank you for banners and dividers! 🤍💜🤍

It’s been three months.

Three whole months…

Three months full of shock, pain, sobbing, anger, guilt, and finally, acceptance.

A quarter of a year of your life spent lamenting the almost two years spent with someone who threw away everything without a second thought.

They say time is all you need to move on, but what they don’t tell you is the amount of regret that is left lingering.

How the hindsight can hurt you more than the breakup itself.

How you blame yourself for the time wasted, for the signs you never saw.

How you start to rethink the things you thought you knew.

Words like, “I love you” and “I promise” become both fleeting and weighted.

All of these thoughts swirl in your mind as you stare into the face of the man who caused this turmoil.

No, that’s wrong.

All he did was cheat on you, lie to you and walk away without batting an eyelash.

Suppressing a cynical laugh, you just stare into the face of your betrayer.

His eager smile doesn’t evoke the tickle in your tummy like it used to.

His handsome, sheepish face doesn’t make you want to rush into his arms like before.

“Hi.”

Once upon a time, that simple line would have you opening the door further and inviting him in, your deceitful mind telling you that he must have a good reason.

Unfortunately for him, the you that used to cave to his ridiculous lies and excuses doesn’t exist anymore.

“What do you want?” Your voice is harsh, a frown tugging at your lips.

You’d be lying if you said he didn’t evoke any emotions in you.

You feel the hand on the door shake as you grip it harder, anger coursing through you.

“I…I missed you. Can I come in to talk?” He asks, the arm behind his back slipping around to present you with a small bouquet of flowers.

“Look, I brought your favorites.”

Frowning at the offering, you can only blink at them.

Not once has he given you flowers.

Not one time.

Scoffing, you stay where you are, blocking the entrance.

“My favorites? Do you even know my favorite flower?”

Though they are pretty, the roses are far from your favorite flower. The very fact that he chose red roses too was so cliche.

You wince at the rage making your voice shake.

Dear god, please don’t let him think I’m getting sad over him.

“Uhhh…flowers are flowers, right?” He asks, shrugging a shoulder and brushing his hair back.

“Look, I don’t know why you came here of all places. But you’re not welcome.”

You begin to close the door in his face, but he lunges forward, stopping you before you can escape him.

“Wait-I know we didn’t end on the best of terms-”

Your laugh halts him momentarily, rolling your eyes at his choice of words.

“-look…all couples take a break-” he’s continuing but you’re done listening.

“Stop. One, we are not a couple. We broke up.” You hold your hand up to halt his retort.

“Two, you cheated on me.”

He frowns at your fingers as you hold them up, counting his mistakes.

“But-”

“Three, there is nothing you could possibly say or do that would have me opening this door to you. I suggest you find someone else’s door to go knock on, because you’re not welcome here.”

You give him a good shove to remove him from the doorway and slam the door, leaning back against it as you hug yourself.

Jumping at his loud pounding, you can only let out a shaky sigh.

“Go away, seriously.”

“Look, I made a mistake, we love each other-”

You snort at his words, cutting him off.

“The only person you love is yourself, so fuck off.”

Walking away from the door and his ridiculous protests, you make your way to your shower to wash off the ick from seeing him again.

Emerging from the bathroom, you listen for a few and smile as silence greets you.

“Finally. Idiot.” you mutter, but you sigh as you feel your body shake from the encounter.

The sheer audacity of him, showing up with roses like that would immediately evaporate all of the pain and hurt he caused-

Your mind whirls as you clench your fists.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a ding from your phone.

Hesitant to check it, you slowly make your way to look at the screen.

Letting out a soft sigh, your body relaxes slightly as you read the text from your best friend.

“If Wooyoung asks, I have absolutely no idea what happened to his favorite hoodie.”

Your lips curl as you shake your head, drying your hair as you remember the fate of said hoodie.

“Sure, you definitely didn’t use it as a mop when you spilled that drink last week.”

“I have no idea what you mean.” You get back and you just sigh, tossing on some pajamas.

“Sure thing, no idea.” you respond, chewing your lip as you ponder if you should tell him about your unwanted visitor.

Yeosang had been there through everything, through the relationship, through the breakup, through the aftermath.

He’d been your rock, and now….

Now you selfishly wanted to vent at him, to have him comfort you and calm you down.

“Is everything okay?” he sends and you blink at the text.

“I swear, he reads my mind.” you hum as you stare at the phone.

Giving in to your instincts you just send him one word.

“No.”

A moment passes, then your phone lights up, ringing with the familiar song you have set to him.

Before it can ring twice you answer, holding the phone to your ear without a word.

“What happened?” His voice washes over you like a warm blanket, the deep tone seeming to uncork the stress, the distilled pain you’ve been holding in.

Instead of answering, when you open your mouth, all that comes out is a sob.

“Hey-hey-what happened? Are you hurt?” His words are laced with panic and you collect yourself enough to reply.

“No…I’m okay, I think. He showed up. At my door.”

Silence greets you from the other end, and a slight rustling is heard as you do your best to try to calm down, covering your mouth with your free hand.

Before the call cuts out, he utters a simple phrase that has relief flooding through you.

“I’m on my way.”

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay to cry, really.” Yeosang is saying, his hand rubbing your back as you both sit on your couch.

He’d gotten over to your place in record time, so quickly that you thought the pounding was him coming back.

“I’m sick of crying, Yeosang.” You get out, leaning into him as he nods at you.

His eyes are full of concern, and what you hope is care and not pity.

Of everyone, Yeosang was the last person you wanted to pity you.

He meant far too much to you for that.

“What the fuck did he even want? Showing up at your door-” he blurts out, clenching his fist on his thigh.

“He…I think he was trying to crawl back here, his other girlfriend must have kicked his ass out.” You tell him, wiping at your nose with the tissue in your hand.

You smile as you watch Yeosang purse his lips, not saying a word.

He’d never truly expressed what he thought of your ex, and you had a feeling he’d never actually liked him much.

At least one of you was smart, you think.

“He even brought flowers. Fucking roses, like they would fix everything. Fucking asshole.”

Yeosang just listens, taking the tissue to replace it with a fresh one.

“The first time he ever brings me flowers, and he brings me roses after three months of silence and cheating and-” you just shake your head, irritated at the whole situation.

“He said they were my favorite too. I wonder if he even remembers anything I like.” You continue, finally feeling a bit of relief after venting to your friend.

Yeosang just sighs, reaching out to brush a tendril of hair back, holding up the glass of water he’d gotten for you when he arrived.

As you drink, he just watches you, finally speaking after you set it down.

“Come on, let’s watch something. It’ll help you relax. How about your favorite? Princess Bride?” He asks, grabbing the remote to scroll through your many apps on the television.

“You’re sick of that one, aren’t you?” Eyeing him, you can’t help but smile.

A small stirring of your old crush on him teases your mind, but you push it down.

Must be my stupid emotions, you think, watching as he puts the movie on.

He holds out his arm, allowing you to snuggle against him as you normally do.

“If it’ll make you smile, I’ll happily watch it twenty more times.” He grins, tossing a blanket over you as you make yourself comfortable on him.

Watching the beginning scene, you look up at him.

“How come you never say anything about him when I complain? It must get old.” You ask, blinking at him.

Yeosang just looks at you, his honey brown eyes studying you as he seems to think about his answer.

After a moment, he just shakes his head.

“I want to hurt anyone who hurts you. So anything I have to say isn’t going to help what you’re going through. Now pay attention, Buttercup.”

He boops your nose as he gestures to the screen, smiling as you let out a soft laugh.

His words have an effect on you that seeing your ex doesn’t and you push them down as you get lost in the movie with your best friend.

The first thing you become aware of is the distant rumble of thunder.

Then, the soft pattering of rain upon glass, soothing you as you inhale deeply

Stirring, you adjust as you try to get comfortable.

The blanket over you is soft and warm, as is the body underneath you.

With your eyes closed and sleep hazing the edges of your brain, you snuggle deeper into the strong arms around you.

Drawing your leg up, you nuzzle your face into the soft material beneath it.

A familiar scent tantalizes your senses as you inhale deeply. The light scent of blackberry, bay leaves and sandalwood soothes you, and you can’t help but cling to the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face into his chest.

Yeosang.

Your sleep addled brain whispers the name as you press closer to him, your body moving instinctively before you can think anything through.

Was he always this…built? Where did these muscles come from?

Your hands seem to have a mind of their own as they skim down his side, splaying out over his stomach.

A soft murmur greets your ears, a deep humming stirs beneath your cheek as his arms tighten ever so slightly around you.

Was he awake?

Your hand stills, feeling your cheeks heat as the fog slowly clears from your brain.

Slowly, you take stock of where you are, how you ended up here.

You’d fallen asleep on the couch watching the movie, you realize.

You were laying half on his chest, his arm wrapped around beneath you with your leg draped over one of his own.

His other arm was tossed over your side, your cheek pressed to his chest above his heart.

The rhythmic thump under your ear is calming, and your lips twitch as the soft sigh that escapes him as he slumbers.

Pervert, were you really trying to feel up your best friend? You think to yourself.

In his sleep, no less.

It’s been far too long since you’ve been intimate with anyone, and your body seems to have a mind of its own.

Traitor. Perverted, horrible traitor.

It’s fine, just errant thoughts. Nothing you hadn’t thought before of him.

As long as they were just thoughts.

But it was different right? Being pressed so close to him, feeling the way your bodies fit together.

How if you just slipped your hand down-

Your mind takes a moment to command you to stop, freezing you as his breath hitches.

You close your eyes, trying to calm the racing thoughts in your mind, the throbbing need that seems to be increasing the longer you lay like this.

You stiffen as he shifts slightly under you, his hand splaying out on your side.

A heat flushes your cheeks at how he lifts his leg, his thigh pressing between your legs as he adjusts, drawing out a small involuntary whimper from your throat.

Dear lord, you think, this is NOT helping your plight.

It didn’t help that the sleep shorts you were wearing had shifted slightly during your sleep.

Not to mention that you weren’t wearing panties…

Now the thin fabric was riding up, the way you were laying on them teasing at your core as your hips instinctively rock against his thigh before you can stop yourself.

Your heart seems to beat in your throat as you glance up at him, the angle you’re at allowing you to see his pretty lashes in the moonlight.

Was he sleeping? Did he know how you were reacting to his innocent movements in his sleep?

Did he know what a bad friend you were, thinking about getting off on him as he slept beneath you?

You study him as his lips part, his tongue darting out to wet them.

At the way his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

At the curve of his pectoral muscles…

Your gaze just slowly takes him in, raking down his body.

You just need to extract yourself from him, make a quick exit to your room.

To take care of this aching need that is driving you to these depraved thoughts.

Decided, you shift to pull back from him, slipping your hand up his chest to find the outside of the couch, intending to crawl over him.

Before you even find a spot for leverage, his hand slips down the curve of your side, your hip, grasping your ass gently.

“Mmm…” he murmurs and you freeze as he shifts again, causing you to bury your face into his neck.

“Yeosang?” You manage to squeak out, inhaling sharply as his hips tilt.

“Uhh…?” His sleep rasped voice brushes in your ear as he seems to come around.

Dear god, he’s not even awake and he’s-

The sharp intake of breath is paired with his hand slipping along your ass as he hikes your thigh up over him.

Fuck…you were straddling him.

Double fuck, you were definitely very aroused from this and you needed to get away quickly before-

Suddenly, as his hands grip your cheeks to rock you against him, you realize how very hard he is.

“Fuck-” He hisses as you draw back, your lust clouded brain screaming for you to wake him completely, to tell him that it’s you; that he’s-

Every thought following flies from your mind as his hand slips between your ass from behind, his fingers taking advantage of the way your shorts have shifted to expose your very wet core.

There’s no time to muffle the moan that leaves your lips, no time to stop your legs from parting eagerly; no time to stop your hips from jerking against him, rubbing your naked sensitive nub against his rough jeans.

Your cheeks burn with a mixture of lust and shame, knowing his body is likely reacting instinctively.

“Yeosang-” You try again, pulling back slightly to see if you can wake him, to stop this-

His dark brown eyes meet yours in the dim moonlight, his lips parted as his fingers slip further down, fingertips dipping daringly into your now clenching cunt.

For a moment, all you can both do is look at one another as you hold tight to him, his eyes searching yours.

The silence is broken by your shameless whimper, your hips grinding down against him as he gives you a little grin.

“Should I stop?” He asks, his voice hoarse from sleep, though he continues to tease at your hole with shallow dips of his fingers.

The hand on your ass squeezes gently, making it extremely hard to think.

“Yeosang, I-” you try to say but then one of his fingers slips further into you, causing you to moan softly.

“Is this because of me…or were you having a wet dream?” His eyes dance as he watches your face, seeming to enjoy the fact that you can’t form proper words.

“You-but…oh god…” you whine as the hand on your ass slips over to yank your shorts farther from your crotch and you can hear a slight tearing noise as the material gives.

Something about the hungry look in his eyes, the soft rip of your flimsy shorts, the way his finger curls as your walls pulse around him tips you over the edge.

His eyes widen as your mouth smashes against his, but they flutter softly as his tongue meets yours eagerly.

Your fingers twist up into the soft strands of his hair, tugging gently as a small growl leaves his throat.

“No-don’t-fucking-stop-” you manage between breaths, your free hand slipping down to tug at his shirt.

Desperation suddenly takes over, and before you know it, his fingers part from your aching cunt and he’s lifting your hips, both of you clawing at the button on his jeans.

You watch him as he watches both of your hands, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Following his gaze, you can’t help but bite your lip as he manages to finally unzip, then push down his pants.

You can’t help but reach eagerly for his thick, rigid length as he tugs his boxer briefs down.

All logical thought is gone as you hear his low, deep groan as your fingers slip along the silky skin of his cock.

There’s nothing slow or tentative about the way he grabs your hip, the way you guide him to your throbbing entrance.

The way you cry out as he pulls you down, the way you stretch deliciously around him.

The quiet room fills with the combined sounds of your moans, the slapping sound of your bodies meeting as his hips tilt and thrust, guiding your own as you reach up to grab his shoulder.

“That’s it, that’s it baby,” he groans, and you can feel the material of his underwear gathering your arousal as you leak down on them.

You shudder as one of his hands yanks up your shirt, awkwardly trying to help him shed the offending garment.

Tossing it to the side, his lips waste no time latching onto your nipple, his teeth scraping the sensitive flesh as he licks and sucks.

“Oh my god-” you cry out, feeling the tight knot in your abdomen ache.

His mouth leaves your breast with soft pop, his breathing harsh as he looks up at you, his hips never faltering to meet yours.

“Yeah, baby? You like my cock?” His voice is deep and shaky, his pupils blown from lust as he grips your hair to force you to look at him as he thrusts even harder up into you.

“Fuck-Yeosang, I fucking love it-please-!” your brain fogs as his arm slips around your waist, holding you tight as he begins to set the pace.

“Please what? Hmm?” He rasps out, his own moans peppering his speech as his fingers dig into your hip.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me what it is you want, hmm? I’ll give you everything you want, you just have to ask-”

His words pause as he dips down to take your other nipple into his mouth, sucking harshly at the bud.

“Harder-” you cry out, “Feels so fucking good, I’m gonna-”

At your words, he suddenly sits up, tipping you onto your back as he follows, guiding your legs around his hips.

He somehow manages to keep himself deep inside of you, his form hovering over you now in the dark room.

He tears his own shirt off before he’s pressing himself against you, your breasts squashed between you both.

“As you wish, Buttercup-” He growls, slipping his hand under your ass to tilt your hips up, his own setting a pace that leaves you breathless.

The sight of him above you, the feral gleam in his eyes as his cock seems to drag your quivering walls in all the right ways has your vision blurring at the edges.

Crying out, you rake your fingernails down his back and the way his eyes roll at the sensation has you rushing quickly towards alleviating the ache slowly bubbling within you.

“Yeah? Right there? You look so fucking good taking my cock, baby.” His deep voice paired with those words begins the first quiver of your impending orgasm.

“Right fucking there, harder-please-don’t stop, Yeosang!” You scream as you feel his body react to your words, to your slick walls pulsing around him.

“Come for me, that’s it-” he moans, the motion of his hips beginning to stutter, each thrust punctuated by a word. “Let me-see you-come around me with that-tight little cunt-”

Your mouth opens on a long wail as you clamp around him, your entire body stiffening as you quake under the sensation.

Your fingers grasp at his back and shoulders frantically as you chase your high as his pelvis grinds down into your clit, every nerve ending in your body seeming to fire all at once.

“Fuck, you look-so fucking beautiful-” his erratic breathing and moans suddenly hitch as he thrusts hard and deep, a long whimper escaping his throat.

His body stiffens as you feel his cock pulse over and over as he spills hot come within you, your name falling from his lips like a mantra.

Slowly, all of the noises die down as the early morning silence creeps back in.

The thunder and rainfall from before has quieted.

Only the sounds of your labored breathing, of his muted pants and grunts as he slowly collapses on top of you hang in the air.

Bringing a shaking hand up to comb through his damp locks, you lean your cheek against his.

“Yeosang?” You murmur, greeted with only a small whine in reply.

“Don’t say it.” He finally whispers, burying his face into your neck.

Confused, you pause your movements through his hair, your hand stilling on his back.

After a moment you merely reply, “Say what?”

“That this was a mistake. That you’re sorry.” he responds quickly, pulling back to look in your eyes, his own shifting and studying you.

“But I-” you start, frowning but he cuts you off.

“I don’t care if you need comfort, I don’t care if you need to get your ex out of your head.” his eyes are pained, and you can only listen as he rambles.

“It doesn’t have to be anything if you don’t want it to be, but I’ve-”

His throat works as the morning sun starts to illuminate his beautiful brown strands, kissing the honey of his skin and making him appear as glorious as any fictional god.

“-I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember.”

His words take your breath away, and you can feel tears pricking your eyes as you blink in shock.

Brushing back his hair, you swallow back a small sob as you bring his lips to yours, reveling in his confession.

The soft yellows and oranges start to light the room even as time seems to stop, the night's events culminating in this wonderful revelation.

By the time you part, the day is fully upon both of you.

Clothing litters the area around you and you can feel the mixture of your releases leaking out from where he’s finally slipped out of you.

His brow is furrowed as he takes you in, and you can see the hint of worry in his eyes as you begin to speak.

“The only thing I’m sorry about…” you say, feeling your cheeks heat, “...is getting touchy with you in your sleep….”

The silence lingers between you for a moment before it’s broken by his silly little giggle.

He leans down to peck your lips, rolling you both to the side as he cradles you in his arms.

“Is that all?” he asks, his voice deep and low as he nuzzles your cheek.

You close your eyes, your heart surging as his words finally seem to actually hit you fully.

“You…you love me?” you ask him, pulling back to look at him fully.

His cheeks stain with a hint of red as he nods, his eyes darting away.

Cupping his cheek, you tilt his head back so his eyes meet yours once more.

“My ex has nothing to do with anything, Yeosang. Long before him….it was you.”

He blinks as he processes your own confession, then his lips are on yours once more.

Not many words are spoken after, throughout the day and into the evening as you both finally express the long held back emotions for one another.

When you get a delivery of morning glories the next day at work, you swear everything you’ve gone through has been worth it.

Of course, you think, wiping your eyes. Of course he knew your favorite flower.

Pulling out the card, you can only let the tears roll down your cheeks at the words that stir your very soul.

“From the moment you came into my life, I knew it was always going to be you. From your favorite food to the way your eyes dance when you laugh, I’ve memorized every aspect of you. The good, the bad and everything in between, it’s always been you. I’ve weathered the dormancy of winter while I waited for you; now that the spring has begun, let’s tend this garden together and watch our love bloom. As the flower implies, this is my promise. Whether your petals are open to warm yourself in the morning sun, or withered by the evening, you will forever be my morning glory.”

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